





mm 



:*;-. 



38 



■ 



Mm 



' ! 



■ 



■ 









■ 

mm 1 



M 



Ffrfu 

m 1118*1 



£8§i 




Class. 

Book.__> 

Copyright!?, 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSfD 




Hendgraph 






COI*GRE«», 

Tvwo COPIS0 REOgWED 

SEP. 10 1902 




Copyright, 1902, 
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 






EDMOND AND JULES DE GONCOURT 



i 

The partnership of Edmond and Jules de Gon- 
court is probably the most curious and perfect ex- 
ample of collaboration recorded in literary history. 
The brothers worked together for twenty-two years, 
and the amalgam of their diverse talents was so com- 
plete that, were it not for the information given by 
the survivor, it would be difficult to guess what each 
brought to the work which bears their names. Even 
in the light of these confidences, it is no easy matter 
to attempt to separate or disengage their literary 
personalities. The two are practically one. Jamais 
ante pareille n'a tie mise en deux corps. This testimony 
is their own, and their testimony is true. The result 
is the more perplexing when we remember that these 
two brothers were, so to say, men of different races. 
The elder was a German from Lorraine, the younger 
was an inveterate Latin Parisian: "the most abso- 
lute difference of temperaments, tastes, and charac- 
ters — and absolutely the same ideas, the same per- 

v 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

sonal likes and dislikes, the same intellectual vision." 
There may be, as there probably always will be, two 
opinions as to the value of their writings; there can 
be no difference of view concerning their intense de- 
votion to literature, their unhesitating rejection of 
all that might distract them from their vocation. 
They spent a small fortune in collecting materials for 
works that were not to find two hundred readers; 
they passed months, and more months, in tedious 
researches the results of which were condensed into 
a single page; they resigned most of life's pleasures 
and all its joys to dedicate themselves totally to the 
office of their election. So they lived — toiling, en- 
deavouring, undismayed, confident in their integrity 
and genius, unrewarded by one accepted triumph, un- 
cheered by a single frank success or even by any 
considerable recognition. The younger Goncourt 
died of his failure before he was forty; the elder 
underwent almost the same monotony of defeat dur- 
ing nearly thirty years of life that remained to him. 
But both continued undaunted, and, if we consider 
what manner of men they were and how dear fame 
was to them, the constancy of their ambition becomes 
all the more admirable. 

Despising, or affecting to despise, the general ver- 
dict of their contemporaries, they loved to declare 
that they wrote for their own personal pleasure, for 
an audience of a dozen friends, or for the delight of 

vi 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

a distant posterity; and, when the absence of all ap- 
preciation momentarily weighed them down, they 
vainly imagined that the acquisition of a new bibelot 
consoled them. No doubt the passion of the col- 
lector was strong in them: so strong that Edmond 
half forgot his grief for his brother and his terror of 
the Commune in the pursuit of first editions: so strong 
that the chances of a Prussian bomb shattering his 
storehouse of treasures — the Maison d'un artiste — at 
Auteuil saddened him more than the dismemberment 
of France. But, even so, the idea that the Goncourts 
could in any circumstances subordinate literature to 
any other interest was the merest illusion. Nothing 
in the world pleased them half so well as the sight of 
their own words in print. The arrival of a set of proof- 
sheets on the ist of January was to them the best pos- 
sible augury for the new year; the sight of their names 
on the placards outside the theatres and the booksell- 
ers' shops enraptured them; and Edmond, then well 
on in years, confesses that he thrice stole downstairs, 
half-clad, in the March dawn, to make sure that the 
opening chapters of Cherie were really inserted in 
the Ganlois. These were their few rewards, their only 
victories. They were fain to be content with such 
small things — la petite monnaie de la gloirc. Still they 
were persuaded that time was on their side, and, as- 
sured as they were of their literary immortality, they 
chafed at the suggestion that the most splendid re- 

vii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

nown must grow dim within a hundred thousand 
years. Was so poor a laurel worth the struggle? 
This was the whole extent of their misgiving. 

Baffled at every point, the Goncourts were un- 
able to account for the unbroken series of disasters 
which befell them; yet the explanation is not far to 
seek. For one thing, they attempted so much, so 
continuously, in so many directions, and in such 
quick succession, that their very versatility and 
diligence laid them under suspicion. They were 
not content to be historians, or philosophers, or 
novelists, or dramatists, or art critics: they would 
be all and each of these at once. In every branch 
of intellectual effort they asserted their claims to 
be regarded as innovators, and therefore as lead- 
ers. Within a month they published Germinie La- 
certeitx and an elaborate study on Fragonard; and, 
while they plumed themselves (as they very well 
might) on their feat, the average intelligent reader 
joined with the average intelligent critic in conclud- 
ing that such various accomplishment must needs 
be superficial. It was not credible that one and the 
same pair — par nobile fratrum — could be not only 
close observers of contemporary life, but also author- 
ities on Watteau and Outamaro, on Marie Antoi- 
nette and Mile. Clairon. To admit this would be to 
emphasize the limitations of all other men of letters. 
Again, the uncanny element of chance which enters 

viii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

into every enterprise was constantly hostile to the 
Goncourts. They not only published incessantly: 
they somehow contrived to publish at inopportune 
moments — at times when the public interest was 
turned from letters to politics. Their first novel ap- 
peared on the very day of Napoleon Ill's Coup detat, 
and their publisher even refused to advertise the book 
lest the new authorities should see in the title of En 
18 — a covert allusion to the 18th Brumaire. It would 
have been a pleasing stroke of irony had the Ministry 
of the 1 6th of May been supported by the country 
as it was supported by Edmond de Goncourt, for 
that Ministry intended to prosecute him as the author 
of La Fille Elisa. La Faustin was issued on the morn- 
ing of Gambetta's downfall; and the seventh volume 
of the Journal des Goncourt had barely been published 
a few hours when the news of Carnot's assassination 
reached Paris. Lastly, the personal qualities of the 
brothers — their ostentation of independence, their 
attitude of supercilious superiority, and, most of all, 
their fatal gift of irony — raised up innumerable ene- 
mies and alienated both actual and possible friends. 
They gave no quarter and they received none. All 
this is extremely human and natural; but the Gon- 
courts, being nervous invalids as well as born fight- 
ers, suffered acutely from what they regarded as the 
universal disloyalty of their comrades. 

They could not realize that their writings con- 
ix 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

tained much to displease men of all parties, and, living 
at war with literary society, they sullenly cultivated 
their morbid sensibility. The simplest trifle stung 
them into frenzies of inconsistency and hallucination. 
To-day they denounced the liberty of the press; to- 
morrow they raged at finding themselves the victims 
of a Government prosecution. Withal their ferocious 
wit, there was not a ray of sunshine in their humour, 
and, instead of smiling at the discomfiture of a dull 
official, they brooded till their imaginations magnified 
these petty police-court proceedings into the tragedy 
of a supreme martyrdom. Years afterward they con- 
tinually return to the subject, noting with exasper- 
ated complacency that the only four men in France 
who were seriously concerned with letters and art — 
Baudelaire, Flaubert, and themselves — had been 
dragged before the courts; and they ended by con- 
sidering their little lawsuit as one of the historic state 
trials of the world. Henceforth, in every personal 
matter — and their art was intensely personal — they 
lost all sense of proportion, believing that there was a 
vast Semitic plot to stifle Manette Salomon and that 
the President had brought pressure on the censor 
to forbid an adaptation of one of their novels being 
put upon the boards. Monarchy, Empire, Republic, 
Right, Centre, Left — no shade of political thought, 
no public man, no legislative measure, ever chanced 
to please them. They sought for the causes of their 

x 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

failure in others: it never occurred to them that the 
fault lay in themselves. Their minds were twin whirl- 
pools of chaotic opinions. Revolutionaries in arts and 
letters as they claimed to be, they detested novelties 
in religion, politics, medicine, science, abstract specu- 
lation. It never struck them that it was incongruous, 
not to say absurd, to claim complete liberty for them- 
selves and to denounce ministers for attempting to 
extend the far more restricted liberty of others. And 
as with the ordering of their lives, so with their art 
and all that touched it. Unable to conciliate or to 
compromise, they were conspicuously successful in 
stimulating the general prejudice against themselves. 
They paraded their self-contradictions with a childish 
pride of paradox. In one breath they deplored the 
ignorance of a public too uncultivated to appreciate 
them; in another breath they proclaimed that every 
government which strives to diminish illiteracy is dig- 
ging its own grave. Priding themselves on the thor- 
oughness of their own investigations, they belittled 
the results of learning in others, mocked at the super- 
ficial labour of the Benedictines, ridiculed the in- 
artistic surroundings of Sainte-Beuve and Renan, 
and protested that antiquity was nothing but an in- 
ept invention to enable professors to earn their daily 
bread. Not content with asserting the superiority of 
Diderot to Voltaire, they pronounced the Abbe Tru- 
blet to be the acutest critic who flourished during 

xi 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

that eighteenth century which they had come to con- 
sider as their exclusive property. Resolute conserva- 
tives in theory, piquing themselves on their descent, 
their personal elegance, their tact and refinement, 
these worshippers of Marie Antoinette admired the 
talent shown by Hebert in his infamous Pere Dtichene, 
and then went on to lament the influence of socialism 
on literature. They were papalini who sympathized 
with Garibaldi; they looked forward to a repetition 
of '93, and almost welcomed it as a deliverance from 
the respectable uniformity of their own time; they 
trusted to the working men — masons, house-painters, 
carpenters, navvies — to regenerate an effete civiliza- 
tion and to save society as the barbarians had saved 
it in earlier centuries. Whatever the value of these 
views, they can scarcely have found favour among 
those who rallied to the Second Empire and who im- 
agined that the Goncourts were a pair of firebrands: 
whereas, in fact, they were petulant, impulsive men 
of talent, smarting under neglect. 

If we were so ingenuous as to take their state- 
ments seriously, we might refuse to admit their right 
to find any place in French literature. For, though 
it would be easy to quote passages in which they 
contemn the cosmopolitan spirit, it would be no less 
easy to set against these their assertions that they 
are ashamed of being French; that they are no more 
French than the Abbe Galiani, the Prince de Ligne, 

xii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

or Heine; that they will renounce their nationality, 
settle in Holland or Belgium, and there found a jour- 
nal in which they can speak their minds. These are 
wild, whirling words: the politics of literary men are 
on a level with the literature of politicians. On their 
own showing, it does not appear that the Goncourts 
were in any way fettered. The sum of their achieve- 
ment, as they saw it, is recorded in a celebrated pas- 
sage of the preface to Cherie: " La recherche du vrai en 
litter attire, la resurrection de Vart du XVIII 6 siecle, la 
victoire du japonisme" These words are the words of 
Jules de Goncourt, but Edmond makes them his own. 
If the brothers were entitled to claim — as they re- 
peatedly claimed — to be held for the leaders of these 
" three great literary and artistic movements of the 
second half of the nineteenth century," it is clear that 
they were justified in thinking that the future must 
reckon with them. It is equally clear that, if their 
title proves good, their environment was much less 
unfavourable than they assumed it to be. 

The conclusion is that their sublime egotism dis- 
abled them from forming a judicial judgment on any 
question in which they were personally concerned. 
They never attempted to reason, to compare, to bal- 
ance; their minds were rilled with the vapour of tu- 
multuous impressions which condensed at different 
periods into dogmas, and were succeeded by fresh 
condensations from the same source. But, amid all 

xiii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

changes, their self-esteem was constant. They had 
no hesitation in setting Dunant's Souvenir de Sol- 
ferino above the Iliad) but when Taine implied that 
he was somewhat less interested in Madame Gervaisais 
than in the writings of Santa Teresa, they were star- 
tled at his boldness. And, to define their position more 
precisely, Edmond confidently declares (among many 
other strange sayings) that the fifth act of La Patrie 
en Danger contains scenes more dramatically poig- 
nant than anything in Shakespeare, and that in La 
Maison d'un Artiste au XIX e Siecle he takes under his 
control — though he candidly avows that none but 
himself suspects it — a capital movement in the history 
of mankind. These are extremely high pretensions, re- 
peatedly renewed in one form or another — in prefaces, 
manifestos, articles, letters, conversation, and, above 
all, in nine invaluable volumes which consist of ex- 
tracts from a diary covering a period of over forty 
years. This extraordinary record incidentally em- 
bodies the rough sketches of the Goncourts' finished 
work, but its interest is far wider and more essentially 
characteristic. Other men have written confessions, 
memoirs, reminiscences, by the score: mostly books 
composed long after the events which they relate, rec- 
ollections revised, reviewed in the light of after events. 
The Goncourts are perhaps alone in daring to un- 
bosom themselves with an absolute sincerity of their 
emotions, intentions, aims. If they come forth dam- 

xiv 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

aged from such a trial, it is fair to remember that the 
test is unique, and that no other writers have ever 
approached them in courage and in what they most 
valued — truth: la recherche du vrai en litter ature. 

II 

A most authoritative critic, M. Brunetiere, has 
laid it down that there is more truth, more fidelity 
to the facts of actual life, in any single romance by 
Ponson du Terrail or by Gaboriau than in all the 
works of the Goncourts put together, and so long 
as we leave truth undefined, this opinion may be as 
tenable as any other. But it may be well to observe 
at the outset that the creative work of the Goncourts 
is not to be condemned or praised en bloc, for the 
simple reason that it is not a spontaneous, uniform 
product, but the resultant of diverse forces varying 
in direction and intensity from time to time. They 
themselves have recorded that there are three dis- 
tinct stages in their intellectual evolution. Begin- 
ning, under the influence of Heine and Poe, with 
purely imaginative conceptions, they rebounded to 
the extremest point of realism before determining on 
the intermediate method of presenting realistic pic- 
tures in a poetic light. Pure imagination in the do- 
main of contemporary fiction seemed to them defec- 
tive, inasmuch as its processes are austerely logical, 
while life itself is compact of contradictions; and their 

xv 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

first reaction from it was entirely natural, on their 
own principles. It remains to-be seen what sense 
should be attached to the formula — la recherche du 
vrai en litterature — in which they summarized their 
position as regards their predecessors. 

Obviously we have to deal with a question of in- 
terpretation. The Goncourts did not — could not — 
pretend that they were the first to introduce truth 
into literature: they merely professed to have attained 
it by a different xoute. The innovation for which they 
claimed credit is a matter of method, of technique. 
Their deliberate purpose is to surprise us by the fidel- 
ity of their studies, to captivate and convince us 
by an accumulation of exact minutiae: in a word, to 
prove that truth is more interesting than fiction. So 
history should be written, and so they wrote it. First 
and last, whatever form they chose, they remained 
historians. Alleging the example set by Plutarch and 
Saint-Simon, they make their histories of the eight- 
eenth century a mine of anecdote, a pageant of pic- 
turesque situations. State-papers, blue-books, minis- 
terial despatches, are in their view the conventional 
means used for hoodwinking simpletons and forward- 
ing the interests of a triumphant faction. The most 
valuable historical material is, as they believed, to be 
sought in the autograph letter. They held that the 
secret of the craftiest intriguer will escape him, despite 
himself, in the expansion of confidential correspon- 

xvi 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

dence. The research for such correspondence is to 
be supplemented by the study of sculpture, paintings, 
engravings, furniture, broadsides, bills — all of them 
indispensable for the reconstruction of a past age and 
for the right understanding of its psychology. But 
these means are simply complementary. The chief 
vehicle of authentic truth is the autograph letter, and, 
though they professed to hold the historical novel in 
abhorrence, they applied their historical methods to 
their records of contemporary life. Thus we inevi- 
tably arrive at the famous theory of the document hu- 
main — a phrase received with much derision when 
first publicly used in the preface to La Faustin, and 
a theory conscientiously adopted by many later nov- 
elists. And here, again, it is important to realize the 
restricted extent of the authors' claim. 

The Goncourts draw a broad, primary distinction 
between ancient and modern literature: the first deals 
mainly with generalities, the second with details. 
They then proceed to establish an analogous distinc- 
tion between novels written before and after Balzac's 
time, the modern novel being based on des documents 
racontes, ou releves d'apres nature, precisely as formal 
history is based on des documents Serifs. But they 
make no pretence of having initiated the revolution; 
their share was limited to continuing Balzac's tradi- 
tion, to enlarging the field of observation, and espe- 
cially to multiplying the instruments of research. 

xvii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

They declared that Gautier had, so to say, endowed 
literature with vision; that Fromentin, in describing 
the silence of the desert, had revealed the literary 
value of hearing; that with Zola, Loti — and they 
might surely have added Maupassant — a fresh sense 
was brought into play: c'est le nez qui entre en scene. 
Their personal contribution was their nervous sensi- 
/ bility: les premiers nous avons ete les ecrivains des nerfs. 
And they were prouder of this morbid quality than 
of their talent. They were ever on the watch for 
fragments of talk caught up in drawing-rooms, in 
restaurants, on omnibuses: ever ready to take notes 
at death-beds, church, or taverns. Their life was one 
long pursuit of Vimprevu, le decousu, Villogique du vrai. 
These observations they transcribed at night while 
the impression was still acute, and these they utilized 
more or less deftly as they advanced towards what 
they rightly thought to be the goal of art: the per- 
fect adjustment of proportion between the real and 
the imagined. 

It would seem that we are now in a position to 
judge the Goncourts by their own standard. Le do- 
sage juste de la litterature et de la vie — this formula 
recurs in one shape or another as a leading principle, 
and it is supplemented by other still more emphatic 
indications which should serve to supply a test. Un- 
happily, with the Goncourts these indications are un- 
systematic and even contradictory. The elder brother 

xviii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

has naturally no hesitation in saying that the highest 
gift of any writer is his power of creating on paper 
real beings — comme des etres crees par Dieu, et conime 
ayant etc tine vraie vie stir la terre — and he is bold 
enough to add that Shakespeare himself has failed 
to create more than two or three personages. He 
protests energetically against the academic virtues, 
and insists on the importance of forming a personal 
style which shall reproduce the vivacity, brio, and 
feverish activity of the best talk. It is, then, all the 
more disconcerting to learn from another passage in 
the Journal that the creation of characters and the 
discovery of an original form of expression are mat- 
ters of secondary moment. The truth is that if the 
Goncourts had, as they believed, something new to 
say, it was inevitable that they should seek to invent 
a new manner of utterance. Renan was doubtless 
right in thinking that they were absolutely without 
ideas on abstract subjects; but they were exquisitely 
susceptible to every shade and tone of concrete ob- 
jects, and the endeavour to convey their innumerable 
impressions taxed the resources of that French vo- 
cabulary on whose relative poverty they so often in- 
sist. The reproaches brought against them in the 
matter of verbal audacities by every prominent critic, 
from Sainte-Beuve in one camp to Pontmartin in the 
other, are so many testimonies to the fact that they 
were innovators — apporteurs du neuf — and that their 
B xix 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

intrepidity cost them dear. Still their boldness in 
this respect has been generally exaggerated. Setting 
out as imitators of two such different models as Gau- 
tier and Jules Janin, they slowly acquired an indi- 
vidual manner — the manner, say, of Germinie Lacer- 
teux or Manette Salomon — but they never attained the 
formula which they had conceived as final. It was 
not given to them to realize their ambition — to write 
novels which should not contain a single bookish ex- 
pression, plays which should reveal that hitherto un- 
discoverable quantity — colloquial speech, raised to the 
level of consummate art. The famous ecriture artiste 
remained an unfulfilled ideal. The expression, first 
used in the preface to Les Freres Zemganno, merely 
foreshadows a possible development of style which 
shall come into being when realism or naturalism, 
ceasing to describe the ignoble, shall occupy itself 
with the attempt to render refinements, reticences, 
subtleties, and half-tones of a more elusive order. It 
is an aspiration, a counsel of perfection offered to a 
younger school by an artist in experiment, who de- 
clares the quest to be beyond his powers. It is noth- 
ing more. 

Leaving on one side these questions of style and 
manner, it may safely be said that in the novels of the 
Goncourts the characters are less memorable, less in- 
teresting as individuals than as illustrations of an 
epoch or types of a given social sphere. Charles 

xx 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

Demailly, Madame Gervaisais, Manette Salomon, 
Renee Mauperin, Soeur Philomene, are not so much 
dramatic creations as figures around which is consti- 
tuted the life of a special milieu — the world of journal- 
ism, of Catholicism seen from two opposite points of 
view, of artists, of the bourgeoisie, as the case may be. 
There are in the best work of the Goncourts aston- 
ishingly brilliant scenes; there is dialogue vivacious, 
witty, sparkling, to an extraordinary degree. And 
this dialogue, as in Charles Demailly, is not only su- 
premely interesting, but intrinsically true to nature. 
It could not well be otherwise, for the speeches as- 
signed to Masson, Lamperiere, Remontville, Bois- 
roger, and Montbaillard are, as often as not, ver- 
batim reports of paradoxes and epigrams thrown 
off a few hours earlier by Theophile Gautier, Flau- 
bert, Saint-Victor, Banville, and Villemessant. But 
these flights, true and well worth preserving as they 
are, fail to impress for the simple reason that they are 
mere exercises in bravura delivered by men much 
less concerned with life than with phrases, that they 
are allotted to subordinate characters, and that they 
rather serve to diminish than to increase the interest 
in the central figures. The Goncourts themselves 
are much less absorbed in life than in writing about 
it: just as landscapes remindeu :hem of pictures, so 
did every other .rnanifestation of existence present 
itself as a possible subject for artistic treatment. They 

xxi 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

had been called the detectives of history; they became 
detectives, inquisitors in real life, and, much as they 
loathed the occupation, they never rested from their 
task of spying and prying and " documentation." As 
with Charles Demailly, so with their other books: each 
character is studied after nature with a grim, revolt- 
ing persistence. Their aunt, Mile, de Courmont, is 
the model of Mile, de Varandeuil in Germinie Lacer- 
teux\ Germinie herself is drawn from their old servant 
Rose, who had loved them, cheated them, blinded 
them for half a lifetime; the Victor Chevassier who 
figures in Quelques creatures de ce temps is sketched 
from their father's old political ally, Colardez, at 
Breuvannes; the original of the Abbe Blampoix in 
Renee Mauperin was the Abbe Caron; the painter 
Beaulieu and that strange Bohemian Pouthier are 
both worked into Manette Salomon. And the novel 
entitled Madame Gervaisais is an almost exact tran- 
scription or record of the life of the authors' aunt, 
Mme. Nephthalie de Courmont: a report so literal 
that in three hundred pages there are but two trifling 
departures from the strictest historical truth. 

Mommsen himself has not excelled the Goncourts 
in conscientious "documentation"; and yet, for all 
their care, their personages do not abide in the mem- 
ory as living beings. We do not see them as indi- 
viduals, but as types; and, strangely enough, the au- 
thors, despite the remarkable skill with which they 

xxii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

materialize many of their impressions, are content 
to deliver their characters to us as so many illus- 
trations of a species. Thus Marthe Mance in Charles 
Demailly is un type, Vincarnation oVun age, de son sexe 
et d'un role de son temps; Langibout is le type pur 
de Vancienne ecole; Madame Gervaisais, too, is un 
exemple et un type of the intellectual bourgeoise of 
Louis-Philippe's time; Madame Mauperin is le type 
of the modern bourgeoise jmother; Renee is the type 
of the modern bourgeoise girl; the Bourjots "repre- 
sent " wealth; Denoisel is a Parisian — ou plntot c'etait 
le Parisien. The Goncourts, in their endeavour to be 
more precise, resort to odd combinations of conflict- 
ing elements. Within some twenty pages Renee 
Mauperin is une melancoliqne tintamarresque; the ad- 
jectives bourgeoise and diabolique are used to charac- 
terize the same thing; the Abbe Blampoix is at once 
" priest and lawyer, apostle and diplomatist, Fenelon 
and M. de Foy." And the same types constantly 
reappear. The physician Monterone in Madame Ger- 
vaisais is simply an Italian version of Denoisel in 
Renee Mauperin ; the Abbe Blampoix has his counter- 
part in Father Giansanti; Honorine is Germinie, be- 
fore the fall; Nachette and Gautruche might be 
brothers. The procedure, too, is almost invariable. 
The antecedents of each personage are given with 
abundant detail. We have minute information as to 
the family history of the Mauperins, the Villacourts, 

xxiii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

Germinie, Couturat, and the rest; and the mention 
of Father Sibilla involves a brief account of the order 
of Barefooted Trinitarians from January, 1198, to the 
spring of 1853! There is a frequent repetition of the 
same idea with scarcely any verbal change: un dos 
d y amateur in Renee Mauperin and le dos du cocker in Ger- 
minie Lacerteux. And the possibilities of the human 
back were evidently not exhausted, for at Christmas, 
1882, Edmond de Goncourt makes a careful note of 
the dos de jeune fille du peuple. 

It is by no means an accident that the most fre- 
quent theme of the brothers is illness : the insanity of 
Demailly, the tortures of Germinie, the consumption 
of Madame Gervaisais, the decay of Renee Mauperin, 
the record of pain in Soeur Philomene, in Les Freres 
Zemganno, and in other works of the Goncourts. 
Emotion in less tragic circumstances they rarely con- 
vey; and when they attempt it they are prone to 
stumble into an unimpressive sentimentalism. Their 
strength lay in pure observation, not in the philo- 
sophic or psychological presentment of nature. For 
their fine powers to have full play, it was necessary 
that they should deal with things seen: in other 
words, that feeling should take a conjcr£te_-sliap£. 
Once this condition is fulfilled, they can focus their 
own impressions and render them with unsurpassable 
skill. We shall find in them nothing epic, nothing in- 
ventive on a grand scale: the transfiguring, ennobling 

xxiv 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

vision of the greatest creators was denied them. But 
they remain consummate masters in their own re- 
stricted province: delicate observers of externals, not- 
ing and remembering with unmatched exactitude 
every detail of gesture, attitude, intonation, and ex- 
pression. The description of landscape — of the Bois 
de Vincennes in Germinie Lacerteux, the Forest of Fon- 
tainebleau in Manette Salomon, or of the Trastevere 
quarter in Madame Gervaisais — commonly affords 
-them an occasion for a triumph; but the description 
of prolonged malady gives them a still greater oppor- 
tunity. Nor is this due simply to the fact that they, 
who had never known what it was to enjoy a day 
of perfect health, spoke from an intimate knowledge 
of the subject. Each landscape preserves at least its 
abstract idiosyncrasy; illness is an essentially "typ- 
ical " state in which individual characteristics diminish 
till they finally disappear. And it is especially in the 
portraiture of types, rather than of individuals, that 
the genius of the Goncourts excels. 

In their own opinion, their initiative extended over 
a vast field and in all directions. They seriously main- 
tained that they were the first to introduce the poor 
into French fiction, the first to awaken the sentiment 
of pity for the wretched; they admitted the priority 
of Dickens, but they apparently forgot that they had 
likewise been anticipated by George Sand — that 
George Sand whose merits it took them twenty 

XXV 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

years to recognise. They forgot, too, that compas- 
sion is precisely the quality in which they were most 
lacking. Gavarni had killed the sentiment of pity in 
them, and had communicated to them his own mock- 
ing, sardonic spirit of inhumanity, his sinister delight 
in every manifestation of cruelty, baseness, and pain. 
In their most candid moods they confessed that they 
were all brain and no heart, that they were with- 
out real affections; and their writings naturally suf- 
fer from this unsympathetic attitude. But when every 
deduction is made, it is impossible to deny their im- 
portance and significance. For they represent a dis- 
tinct stage in an organized movement — the reaction 
against romanticism in the novel and lyrism in the 
theatre. And there is some basis for their bold asser- 
tion that they led the way in every other develop- 
ment of the modern French novel. They believed 
that they had founded the naturalistic school in Ger- 
minie Lacerteux, the psychological in Madame Ger- 
vaisais, the symbolic in Les Freres Zemganno, and the 
satanic in La Faustin. It is unnecessary to recognise 
all these claims in full: to discuss them at all, even if 
we deny them, is to admit that the Goncourts Were 
men of striking intellectual force, of singular ambi- 
tion, of exceptionally rich and diverse gifts amount- 
ing, at times, to unquestionable genius. If they were 
unsuccessful in their attempt to create an entire race 
of beings as real as any on the planet, their superla- 

xxvi 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

tive talent produced, in the form of novels, invalua- 
ble studies of manners and customs, a brilliant series 
of monographs on the social history of the nine- 
teenth century. And Daudet and M. Zola, and a 
dozen others whom it would be invidious to name, 
may be accounted as in some sort their literary de- 
scendants. 

It is not unnatural that Edmond de Goncourt 
should have ended by disliking the form of the novel, 
which he came to regard as an exhausted convention. 
His pessimism was universal. Art was dying, litera- 
ture was perishing daily. The almost universal ac- 
ceptance of Ibsen and of Tolstoi was in itself a 
convincing symptom of degeneration, if the vogue 
of the latter writer were not indeed the result of 
a cosmopolitan plot against the native realistic 
school. It was some consolation to reflect that, 
after all, there was more " philosophy " in Beau- 
marchais than in Ibsen; that the name of Gon- 
court was held in honour by Scandinavians and 
Slavs. Yet it could not be denied that, the world 
over, aristocracy of every kind was breaking down. 
To the eyes of the surviving Goncourt all the signs 
of a last great catastrophe grew visible. Mankind 
was ill, half-mad, and on the road to become com- 
pletely insane. There were countless indications of 
intellectual and physical decadence. Sloping shoul- 
ders were disappearing; the physique of the peasant 

xxvii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

was not what it had been; good food was practically 
unattainable; in a hundred years a man who had once 
tasted genuine meat would be pointed out as a curios- 
ity. The probability was, that within half a century 
there would not be a man of letters in the world; the 
reporter, the interviewer, would have taken possession. 
As it was, the younger generation of readers no long- 
er rallied to the Goncourts as it had rallied when 
Henriette Marechal was first replayed. The weary old 
man buried himself in memoirs, biographies, books of 
travel; then turned to his first loves — to Poe and 
Heine — and found that " we are all commercial trav- 
ellers compared to them." But, threatened as he was 
by blindness, despairing as were his presentiments of 
what the future concealed, his confidence in the dura- 
bility of his fame and his brother's fame was undimmed. 
There would always be the select few interested in 
two such examples of the litterateur bien ne. There 
would always be the official historians of literature 
to take account of them as new, perplexing, elemental 
forces. There would always be the curious who must 
turn to the Goncourts for positive information. " Our 
romances," as the brothers had noted forty years ear- 
lier, " will supply the greatest number of facts and 
absolute truths to the moral history of this century." 
And Edmond de Goncourt clung to the belief, ending, 
happily and characteristically enough, by conceiving 
himself and his brother to be " types," and the best 

xxviii 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

of all types: le type de Vhonnete homme litter aire, du 
perseverant dans ses convictions, et du contempteur de 
Vargent. The praise is deserved. It is a distinction 
of which greater men might well be proud. 

James Fitzmaurice-Kelly. 



xxix 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 



The Goncoarts were the sons of a cavalry officer, 
commander of a squadron in the Imperial army. Ed- 
mond zvas born at Nancy, on the 26th of May, 1822, and 
his brother Jules in Paris, on the i/th of December, 
1830. They were the grandsons of the deputy of the 
National Assembly of 1789, Huot de Goncourt. A very 
close friendship united the brothers from their earliest 
youth, but it appears to have been in the younger that 
the irresistible tendency to literature first displayed itself. 
They were originally drawn almost exclusively to the study 
of the history of art. They devoted themselves particu- 
larly to the close of the eighteenth century, and in their 
earliest important volumes, "La Revolution dans les 
Mceurs" {1854), " ' Histoire de la Societe Frangaise pen- 
dant la Revolution" (1854), an & "Pendant le Direc- 
toire" (1855), they invented a new thing, the evolution 
of the history of an age from the objects and articles of 
its social existence. They were encouraged to continue 
these studies further, more definitely concentrating their 
observations around individuals, and some very curious 
monographs — made up, as some one said, of the detritus 
of history — were the result, " Une Voiture de Masques," 
1856; "Les Actrices (Armande)" 1856; "Sophie Ar- 

xxxi 



Biographical Note 



nauld," 1857. The most ingenious efforts of the broth- 
ers in this direction were, however, concentrated upon 
" Portraits Intimes du XVIII e Siecle," 1857-58, and upon 
the " Histoire de Marie Antoinette/' 1858. 

Towards i860 the Goncourts closed their exclusively 
historical work, and transferred their minute observation 
and excessively meticulous treatment of small aspects of 
life to realistic romance. Their first novel, " Les Hommes 
de Lettres" i860 {now known as "Charles Demailly"), 
showed some lack of ease in using the new medium, but 
it was followed by " Sceur Philomene," 1861, one of the 
most finished of their fictions, and this by " Renee Mau- 
perin" 1864; " Germinie Lacerteux," 1864; " Manette 
Salomon," 1867 ; and " Madame Gervaisais," i860. 
Meanwhile, numerous studies of the art of the bibelot 
appeared under the name of the two Goncourts, and in 
particular their great zvork on " L'Art du XVIII e Siecle," 
which began to be published in 185P, although not com- 
pleted until 1882. All this while, moreover, they were se- 
cretly composing their splenetic " Journal" On the 20th 
of June, 1870, the fair companionship was broken by the 
death of Jules de Goncourt, and for some years Edmond 
did no more than complete and publish certain artistic 
works which had been left unfinished. Of these, the most 
remarkable were, a monograph on the life and work of 
Gavarni, 1873; a compilation called " V Amour au XVIJI e 
Siecle," 1875; studies of the Du Barry, the Pompadour, 
and the Duchess of Chdteauroux, 1878-70 (these three 
afterward united in one volume as "Les Mattresses de 
Louis XV ") ; and notes of a tour in Italy, 1804. 

xxxii 



Biographical Note 



Edmond de Goncourt, however, after several years of 
silence, returned alone to the composition of prose ro- 
mance. He published in 1877 " La Fille Elisa," an ultra- 
realistic tragedy of low life. In 18/8, in the very curious 
story of two mountebanks, " Les Frczzs^Zenganno," he 
betrayed the secret of his own perennial sorrow. Tzvo 
more novels, " La Faustin," 1882, and " Chcric," the 
pathetic portrait of a spoiled child, close the series of his 
works in fiction. He returned to a close examination of 
the history of art, and published catalogues raisonnes of 
the entire work of Wattcau (1875) and of Prud'hon 
(18/6). His latest interests were centred around the 
classical Japanese designers, and he published elaborate 
monographs on Outamaro (1891) and Hokousai (1896). 
In 1885 he collected the Letters of his brother Jules, and 
issued from 188/ to 1896, in nine volumes, as much as 
has hitherto been published of the celebrated "Journal 
des Goncourts." 

Edmond de Goncourt died while on a visit to Alphonse 
Daudet, at Champrosay, the country-house of the latter, 
on the 16th of July, 1896. He left his considerable for- 
tune, which included valuable collections of bibelots, main- 
ly for the purpose of endowing an Academy of Prose 
Literature, in opposition to the French Academy. In 
spite of extreme hostility from the members of his family, 
and innumerable legal difficulties, this " Academie des 
Goncourts" was formed, on what seems to be a secure 
basis, in 1901, and M. J oris Karl Huysmans was elected 
its first president. 

E. G. 
xxxiii 



CONTENTS 



PAGES 

Edmond and Jules de Goncourt . . v-xxix 

James Fitzmaurice- Kelly 

Lives of Edmond and Jules de Gon- 
court xxxi-xxxiii 

Edmund Gosse 

Renee Mauperin I_ 349 

The Portraits of Edmond and Jules de 

Goncourt 351—367 

Octave Uzanne 




XXXV 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



FACING 
PAGE 



Jules de Goncourt, from an etching 
by Abot after a medallion by 
Claudius Popelin Frontispiece 

Facsimiles, in colours, of paintings by Henry Delaspre 

She played without her notes, her face turned 

towards the drawing-room 37 

Mme. Bourjot had fainted 150 

Dragging himself along and leaving a track 

of blood on the snow behind him . . 270 

Portraits in the text 

PAGE 

Edmond de Goncourt, drawn from life by 

Will Rothenstein, 1894 353 

Edmond de Goncourt, from an etching by 

Jules de Goncourt, i860 354 

Edmond and Jules de Goncourt, from a 

lithograph by Gavarni, 1853 . . . . 355 
xxxvii 



Renee Mauperin 



PAGE 



Jules de Goncourt, from a water-colour by 

Edmond de Goncourt, 1857 . . . . 356 

Edmond de Goncourt, etched from life by- 
Jules de Goncourt, 1861 357 

Edmond and Jules de Goncourt, from an 

engraving by Bracquemond, 1875 • • 3S$ 

Edmond de Goncourt, in 1888, portrait on 

wood in La Vie Populaire . . . . . 359 

Edmond de Goncourt, from a photograph by 

Nadar, 1892 360 

Edmond de Goncourt, from an etching by 

Bracquemond, 1882 361 

Edmond de Goncourt, from a photograph by 

Nadar, 1893 362 

Portraits of the Freres de Goncourt, part of 
a design by Willette, in Le Courrier 
Frangais y 1895 • • • • • • • • 3^3 

Edmond de Goncourt, by Eugene Carriere, 

lithographed in 1895 364 

Edmond de Goncourt, by Eugene Carriere, 

from the cover of a vellum-bound book . 365 

Edmond de Goncourt, unpublished portrait 

from life by Georges Jeanniot .... 367 



xxxvin 




CjcS+i. rf frd 




RENEE MAUPERIN 



RENEE MAUPERIN 



" You don't care about society, then, mademoi- 
selle? " 

" You won't tell any one, will you? — but I always 
feel as though I've swallowed my tongue when I go 
out. That's the effect society has on me. Perhaps 
it is that I've had no luck. The young men I have 
met are all very serious, they are my brother's friends 
— quotation young men, I call them. As to the girls, 
one can only talk to them about the last sermon they 
have heard, the last piece of music they have learned, 
or their last new dress. Conversation with my con- 
temporaries is somewhat restricted." 

" And you live in the country all the year round, 
do you not? " 

" Yes, but we are so near to Paris. Is the piece 
good they have just been playing at the Opera Co- 
mique? Have you seen it? " 

" Yes, it's charming — the music is very fine. All 
Paris was at the first night — I never go to the thea- 
tre except on first nights." 

3 



Renee Mauperin 



" Just fancy, they never take rh,e to any theatre 
except the Opera Comique and the Frangais, and 
only to the Frangais when there is a classical piece on. 
I think they are terribly dull, classical pieces. Only to 
think that they won't let me go to the Palais Royal! 
I read the pieces though. I spent a long time learn- 
ing ' The Mountebanks ' by heart. You are very 
lucky, for you can go anywhere. The other evening 
my sister and my brother-in-law had a great discus- 
sion about the Opera Ball. Is it true that it is quite 
impossible to go to it? " 

"Impossible? Well " * 

" I mean — for instance, if you were married, would 
you take your wife, just once, to see ii? " 

" If I were married I would not even take " 

" Your mother-in-law. Is that #hat you were 
going to say? Is it so dreadful — really? " 

" Well, in the first place, the company is " 

" Variegated? I know what that's like. But 
then it's the same everywhere. Every one goes to the 
Marche and the company is mixed enough there. 
One sees ladies, who are rather queer, drinking 
champagne in their carriages. Then, too, the Bois 
de Boulogne! How dull it is to be a young person, 
don't you think so? " 

"What an idea! Why should it be? On the 
contrary, it seems to me " 

" I should like to see you in my place. You would 
4 



Renee Mauperin 



soon find out what a bore it is to be always proper. 
We are allowed to dance, but do you imagine that we 
can talk to our partner? We may say ' Yes,' No,' 
'No,' 'Yes/ and that's all! We must always keep 
to monosyllables, as that is considered proper. You 
see how delightful our existence is. And for every- 
thing it is just the same. If we want to be very proper 
we have to act like simpletons; and for my part I can- 
not do it. Then we are supposed to stop and prattle 
to persons of our own sex. And if we go off and leave 
them and are seen talking to men instead — oh, well, 
I've had lectures enough from mamma about that! 
Reading is another thing that is not at all proper. Until 
two years ago I was not allowed to read the serials in 
the newspaper, and now I have to skip the crimes in 
the news of the day, as they are not quite proper. 

" Then, too, with the accomplishments we are al- 
lowed to learn, we must not go beyond a certain aver- 
age. We may learn duets and pencil drawing, but if 
we want anything more, why, it's affectation on our 
part. I go in for oil-painting, for instance, and that 
is the despair of my family. I ought only to paint 
roses and in water-colours. There's quite a current 
here, though, isn't there? I can scarcely stand." 

This was said in an arm of the Seine just between 
Briche and the lie Saint Denis. The girl and the 
young man who were conversing were in the water. 
They had been swimming until they were tired, and 

5 



Renee Mauperin 

now, carried along by the current, they had caught 
hold of a rope which was fastened to one of the large 
boats stationed along the banks of the island. The 
force of the water rocked them both gently at the end 
of the tight, quivering rope. They kept sinking and 
then rising again. The water was beating against 
the young girl's breast; it filled out her woollen 
bathing-dress right up to the neck, while from 
behind little waves kept dashing over her which a 
moment later were nothing but dewdrops hanging 
from her ears. 

She was rather higher up than the young man and 
had her arms out of the water, her wrists turned round 
in order to hold the rope more firmly, and her back 
against the black wood of the boat. Instinctively she 
kept drawing back as the young man, swayed by the 
strong current, approached her. Her whole attitude, 
as she shrank back, suspended from the rope, remind- 
ed one of those sea goddesses which sculptors carve 
upon galleys. A slight tremor, caused partly by the 
cold and partly by the movement of the river, gave 
her something of the undulation of the water. 

" Ah, now this, for instance," she continued, " can- 
not be at all proper — to be swimming here with you. 
If we were at the seaside it would be quite different. 
We should have just the same bathing costumes as 
these, and we should come out of a bathing-van just 
as we have come out of the house. We should have 

6 



Renee Mauperin 



walked across the beach just as we have walked along 
the river bank, and we should be in the water to the 
same depth, absolutely like this. The waves would 
roll us about as this current does, but it would not 
be the same thing at all; simply because the Seine 
water is not proper! Oh, dear! I'm getting so hun- 
gry — are you? " 

" Well, I fancy I shall do justice to dinner." 

" Ah! I warn you that I eat." 

" Really, mademoiselle? " 

" Yes, there is nothing poetical about me at meal- 
times. If you imagine that I have no appetite you are 
quite mistaken. You are in the same club as my 
brother-in-law, are you not? " 

" Yes, I am in M. Davarande's club." 

" Are there many married men in it? " 

" Yes, a great many." 

"How odd! I cannot understand why a man 
marries. If I had been a man it seems to me that 
I should never have thought of marrying." 

" Fortunately you are a woman." 

" Ah, yes, that's another of our misfortunes, we 
women cannot stay unmarried. But will you tell me 
why a man joins a club when he is married? " 

" Oh, one has to be in a club — especially in Paris. 
Every man of any standing — if only for the sake of 
going in there for a smoke." 

"What! do you mean to say that there are any 
7 



Renee Mauperin 



wives nowadays without smoking-rooms? Why, I 
would allow — yes, I would allow a halfpenny pipe! " 

" Have you any neighbours? " 

" Oh, we don't visit much. There are the Bour- 
jots at Sannois, we go there sometimes." 

"Ah, the Bourjots! But, here, there cannot be 
any one to visit." 

"Oh, there's the cure. Ha! ha! the first time 
he dined with us he drank the water in his finger-bowl! 
Oh, I ought not to tell you that, it's too bad of me 
— and he's so kind. He's always bringing me flow- 
ers." 

" You ride, don't you, mademoiselle? That must 
be a delightful recreation for you." 

" Yes, I love riding. It is my one pleasure. It 
seems to me that I could not do without that. What 
I like above everything is hunting. I was brought up 
to that in the part of the world where papa used to live. 
I'm desperately fond of it. I was seven hours one day 
in my saddle without dismounting." 

" Oh, I know what it is — I go hunting every 
year in the Perche with M. de Beaulieu's hounds. 
You've heard of his pack, perhaps; he had them over 
from England. Last year we had three splendid runs. 
By-the-bye, you have the Chantilly meets near here." 

" Yes, I go with papa, and we never miss one. 
When we were all together at the last meet there were 
quite forty horses, and you know how it excites them 

8 



Renee Mauperin 

to be together. We started off at a gallop, and you 
can imagine how delightful it was. It was the day 
we had such a magnificent sunset in the pool. Oh, 
the fresh air, and the wind blowing through my hair, 
and the dogs and the bugles and the trees flying 
along before you — it makes you feel quite intoxi- 
cated! At such moments I'm so brave, oh, so brave! " 

" Only at such moments, mademoiselle? " 

" Well — yes — only on horseback. On foot, I 
own, I am very frightened at night; then, too, I don't 
like thunder at all — and — well, I'm very delighted 
that we shall be three persons short for dinner this 
evening." 

" But why, mademoiselle? " 

"We should have been thirteen! I should have 
done the meanest things for the sake of getting a 
fourteenth — as you would have seen. Ah, here comes 
my brother with Denoisel; they'll bring us the boat. 
Do look how beautiful it all is from here, just at this 

time!" 

She glanced round, as she spoke, at the Seine, the 
river banks on each side, and the sky. Small clouds 
were sporting and rolling along in the horizon. They 
were violet, gray, and silvery, just tipped with flashes 
of white, which looked like the foam of the sea touch- 
ing the lower part of the sky. 

Above them rose the heavens infinite and blue, 
profound and clear, magnificent and just turning paler 

9 



\ 



Renee Mauperin 

as they do at the hour when the stars are beginning 
to kindle behind the daylight. Higher up than all 
hung two or three clouds stretching over the land- 
scape, heavy-looking and motionless. 

An immense light fell over the water, lying dor- 
mant here, flashing there, making the silvery streaks 
in the shadow of the boats tremble, touching up a 
mast or a rudder, or resting on the orange-coloured 
handkerchief or pink jacket of a washerwoman. The 
country, the outskirts of the town, and the suburbs all 
met together on both sides of the river. There were 
rows of poplar trees to be seen between the houses, 
which were few and far between, as at the extreme 
limit of a town. 

Then there were small, tumble-down cottages, in- 
closures planked round, gardens, green shutters, wine- 
trade signs painted in red letters, acacia trees in front 
of the doors, old summer arbors giving way on one 
side, bits of walls dazzlingly white, then some straight 
rows of manufactories, brick buildings with tile and 
zinc-covered roofs, and factory bells. Smoke from 
the various workshops mounted straight upward and 
the shadow of it fell in the water like the shadows of 
so many columns. 

On one stack was written " Tobacco,'* and on a 
plaster facade could be read " Doremus Labiche, 
Boats for Hire." 

Over a canal which was blocked up with barges, 
10 



Renee Mauperin 



a swing-bridge lifted its two black arms in the air. 
Fishermen were throwing and drawing in their lines. 
The sound of wheels could be heard, carts were com- 
ing and going. Towing-ropes scraped along the road, 
which was hard, rough, black, and dyed all colours 
by the unloading of coal, mineral refuse, and chem- 
icals. 

From the candle, glucose, and fecula manufactories 
and sugar-refining works which were scattered along 
the quay, surrounded by patches of verdure, there 
was a vague odour of tallow and sugar which was car- 
ried away by the emanations from the water and the 
smell of tar. The noise from the foundries and the 
whistle of steam engines kept breaking the silence of 
the river. 

It was like Asnieres, Saardam, and Puteaux com- 
bined, one of those Parisian landscapes on the banks 
of the Seine such as Hervier paints, foul and yet 
radiant, wretched yet gay, popular and full of life, 
where Nature peeps out here and there between the 
buildings, the work and the commerce, like a blade 
of grass held between a man's fingers. 

" Isn't it beautiful? " 

" Well, to tell the truth, I am not in raptures about 
it. It's beautiful — in a certain degree." 

" Oh, yes, it is beautiful. I assure you that it is 
very beautiful indeed. About two years ago at the 
Exhibition there was an effect of this kind. I don't 

II 



Renee Mauperin 



remember the picture exactly, but it was just this. 
There are certain things that I feel " 

" Ah, you have an artistic temperament, madem- 
oiselle." 

"Oh!" exclaimed the young girl, with a comic 
intonation, plunging forthwith into the water. When 
she appeared again she began to swim towards the 
boat which was advancing to meet her. Her hair had 
come down, and was all wet and floating behind her. 
She shook it, sprinkling the drops of water all round. 

Evening was drawing near and rosy streaks were 
coming gradually into the sky. A breath was stirring 
over the river, and at the tops of the trees the leaves 
were quivering. A small windmill, which served for 
a sign over the door of a tavern, began to turn round. 

" Well, Renee, how have you enjoyed the water? " 
asked one of the rowers as the young girl reached the 
steps placed at the back of the boat. 

" Oh, very much, thanks, Denoisel," she answered. 

" You are a nice one," said the other man, " you 
swim out so far — I began to get uneasy. And what 
about Reverchon? Ah, yes, here he is." 



12 



II 

Charles Louis Mauperin was born in 1787. 
He was the son of a barrister who was well known 
and highly respected throughout Lorraine and Bar- 
rois, and at the age of sixteen he entered the military 
school at Fontainebleau. He became sublieutenant in 
the Thirty-fifth Regiment of infantry, and afterward, 
as lieutenant in the same corps, he signalized himself 
in Italy by a courage which was proof against every- 
thing. At Pordenone, although wounded, sur- 
rounded by a troop of the enemy's cavalry and chal- 
lenged to lay down arms, he replied to the challenge 
by giving the command to charge the enemy, by 
killing with his own hand one of the horsemen who 
was threatening him and opening a passage with his 
men, until, overcome by numbers and wounded on 
the head by two more sword-thrusts, he fell down cov- 
ered with blood and was left on the field for dead. 

After being captain in the Second Regiment of the 
Mediterranean, he became captain aide-de-camp to 
General Roussel d'Hurbal, went through the Rus- 
sian campaign with him, and was shot through the 
right shoulder the day after the battle of Moscow. 

13 



Renee Mauperin 



In 1813, at the age of twenty-six, he was an offi- 
cer of the Legion of Honour and major in the army. 
He was looked upon as one of the commanding offi- 
cers with the most brilliant prospects, when the battle 
of Waterloo broke his sword for him and dashed his 
hopes to the ground. 

He was put on half-pay, and, with Colonel Sauset 
and Colonet Maziau, he entered into the Bonapartist 
conspiracy of the Bazar frangais. 

Condemned to death by default, as a member of 
the managing committee, by the Chamber of Peers, 
constituted into a court of justice, he was concealed 
by his friends and shipped off to America. 

On the voyage, not knowing how to occupy his 
active mind, he studied medicine with one of his fel- 
low-passengers who intended taking his degree in 
America, and on arriving, Mauperin passed the neces- 
sary examinations with him. After spending two 
years in the United States, thanks to the friendship 
and influence of some of his former comrades, who 
had been taken again into active service, he obtained 
pardon and was allowed to return to France. 

He went back to the little town of Bourmont, to 
the old home where his mother was still living. This 
mother was one of those excellent old ladies so fre- 
quently met with in the provincial France of the 
eighteenth century. She was gay, witty, and fond 
of her glass of wine. Her son adored her, and on find- 

14 



Renee Mauperin 

ing her ill and under doctor's orders to avoid all stimu- 
lants, he at once gave up wine, liqueurs, and coffee 
for her sake, thinking that it would be easier for her 
to abstain if he shared her privations. It was in com- 
pliance with her request, and by way of humouring 
her sick fancies, that he married a cousin for whom 
he had no especial liking. His mother had selected 
this wife for her son on account of a joint claim to cer- 
tain land, fields which touched each other, and all the 
various considerations which tend to unite families and 
blend together fortunes in the provinces. 

After the death of his mother, the narrow life in 
the little town, which had no further attraction for 
him, seemed irksome, and, as he was not allowed to 
dwell in Paris, M. Mauperin sold his house and land 
in Bourmont, with the exception of a farm at Villa- 
court, and went to live with his young wife on a large 
estate which he bought in the heart of Bassigny, at 
Morimond. There were the remains of a large abbey, 
a piece of land worthy of the name which the monks 
had given it — " Mort-an-monde " — a wild, magnificent 
bit of Nature with a pool of some hundred acres or 
more and a forest of venerable oak trees; meadows 
with canals of freestone where the spring-tide flowed 
along under bowers of trees, a veritable wilderness 
where the vegetation had been left to itself since the 
Revolution; springs babbling along in the shade; wild 
flowers, cattle-tracks, the remains of a garden and the 

15 



Renee Mauperin 



% 



ruins of buildings. Here and there a few stones had 
survived. The door was still to be seen, and the 
benches were there on which the beggars used to sit 
while taking their soup; here the apse of a roofless 
chapel and there the seven foundations of walls a la 
Montreuil. The pavilion at the entrance, built at the 
beginning of the last century, was all that was still 
standing; it was complete and almost intact. 

M. Mauperin took up his abode in this and lived 
there until 1830, solitary and entirely absorbed in his 
studies. He gave himself up to reading, educating 
himself on all subjects, and reaping knowledge in every 
direction. He was familiar with all the great histori- 
ans, philosophers, and politicians, and was thoroughly 
master of the industrial sciences. He only left his 
books when he felt the need of fresh air, and then he 
would rest his brain and tire his body with long walks 
of some fifteen miles across the fields and through the 
woods. 

Every one was accustomed to see him walk like 
this, and the country people recognised him in the 
distance by his step, his long frock-coat, all but- 
toned up, his officer's gait, his head always slightly 
bent, and the stick, made from a vine-stalk, which 
he used as a cane. The only break in his secluded 
and laborious life was at election time. M. Mau- 
perin then put in an appearance everywhere from 
one end of the department to the other. He drove 

16 



Renee Mauperin 



about the country in a trap, and his soldierly voice 
could be heard rousing the electors to enthusiasm at 
all their meetings; he gave the word of command for 
the charge on the Government candidates, and to him 
all this was like war once more. 

When the election was over he left Chaumont and 
returned to his regular routine and to the obscure 
tranquility of his studies. 

Two children had come to him — a boy in 1826 and 
a girl in 1827. After the Revolution of 1830 he was 
elected deputy. When he took his seat in the cham- 
ber, his American ideas and theories were very much 
like those of Armand Carrel. His animated speeches 
— brusque, martial, and full of feeling — made quite a 
sensation. He became one of the inspirers of the 
National after being one of its first shareholders, and 
he suggested articles attacking the budget and the 
finances. 

The Tuileries made advances to him; some of 
his former comrades, who were now aides-de-camp 
under the new king, sounded him with the promise of 
a high military position, a generalship in the army, or 
some honour for which he was still young enough. 
He refused everything point-blank. In 1832 he 
signed the protestation of the deputies of the Oppo- 
sition against the words " Subjects of the King," which 
had been pronounced by M. de Montalivet, and he 
fought against this system until 1835. 

17 



Renee Mauperin 



That year his wife presented him with a child, a 
little girl whose arrival stirred him to the depths of his 
being. His other two children had merely given him 
a calm joy, a happiness without any gaiety. Some- 
thing had always seemed wanting — just that some- 
thing which brightens a father's life and makes the 
home ring with laughter. 

M. Mauperin loved his two children, but he did 
not adore them. The fond father had hoped to de- 
light in them, and he had been disappointed. Instead 
of the son he had dreamed of — a regular boy, a mis- 
chievous little urchin, one of those handsome little 
dare-devils with whom an old soldier could live over 
again his own youth and hear once more, as it 
were, the sound of gunpowder — M. Mauperin had 
to do with a most rational sort of a child, a little 
boy who was always good, " quite a young lady," 
as he said himself. This had been a great trouble to 
him, as he felt almost ashamed to have, as his son 
and heir, this miniature man who did not even break 
his toys. 

With his daughter M. Mauperin had had the same 
disappointment. She was one of those little girls who 
are women when they are born, and who play with 
their parents merely to amuse them. She scarcely 
had any childhood, and at the age of five, if a gen- 
tleman called to see her father, she always ran away 
to wash her hands. She would be kissed on certain 

IS 



Renee Mauperin 



spots, and she seemed to dread being ruffled or in- 
convenienced by a father's caresses and love. 

Thus repelled, M. Mauperin's affection, so long 
hoarded up, went out to the cradle of the little new- 
comer whom he had named Renee after his mother. 
He spent whole days with his little baby-girl in divine 
nonsense. He would keep taking off her little cap to 
look at her silky hair, and he taught her to make 
grimaces which charmed him. He would lie down 
beside her on the floor when she was rolling about 
half naked with all a child's delightful unconscious- 
ness. In the night he would get up to look at her 
asleep, and would pass hours listening to this first 
breath of life, so like the respiration of a flower. 
When she woke up he would be there to have her 
first smile — that smile of little girl-babies which comes 
from out of the night as though from Paradise. His 
happiness kept changing into perfect bliss; it seemed 
to him that the child he loved so much was a little 
angel from heaven. 

What joy he had with her at Morimond! He 
would wheel her all round the house in a little car- 
riage, and at every few steps turn round to look 
at her screaming with laughter, with the sunshine 
playing on her cheeks, and her little supple, pink foot 
curled up in her hand. Or he would take her with 
him when he went for a walk, and would go as far as a 
village and let the child throw kisses to the people 

19 



Renee Mauperin 



who bowed to him, or he would enter one of the farm- 
houses and show his daughter's teeth with great pride. 
On the way, the child would often go to sleep in his 
arms, as she did with her nurse. At other times he 
would take her into the forest, and there, under the 
trees full of robin-redbreasts and nightingales, towards 
the end of the day when there are voices overhead 
in the woods, he would experience the most unutter- 
able joy on hearing the child, impressed by the noises 
around, try to imitate the sounds, and to murmur and 
prattle as though she were answering the birds and 
speaking to the singing heavens. 

Mme. Mauperin had not given this last daugh- 
ter so hearty a welcome.* She was a good wife and 
mother, but Mme. Mauperin was eaten up with that 
pride peculiar to the provinces — namely, the pride 
of money. She had made all her arrangements for two 
children, but the third one was not welcome, as it 
would interfere with the pecuniary affairs of the other 
two, and, above all, would infringe on her son's 
share. The division of land which was now one estate, 
the partition of wealth which had accumulated, and 
in consequence the lowering of social position in the 
future and of the importance of the family — all this 
was what the second little daughter represented to 
£ her mother. 

M. Mauperin very soon had no more peace. The 
mother was constantly attacking the politician, and 

20 



Renee Mauperin 



reminding the father that it was his duty to sacrifice 
himself to the interests of his children. She endeav- 
oured to separate him from his friends and to make 
him forsake his party and his fidelity to his ideas. 
She made fun of what she called his tomfoolery, which 
prevented him from turning his position to account. 
Every day there were fresh attacks and reproaches 
until he was fairly haunted by them; it was the terrible 
battle of all that is most prosaic against the conscience 
of a Deputy of the Opposition. Finally, M. Mauperin 
asked his wife for two months' truce for reflection, as 
he, too, would have liked his beloved Renee to be rich. 
At the end of the two months he sent his resignation 
in to the Chamber and opened a sugar-refinery at 
Briche. 

That had been twenty years ago. The children 
had grown up and the business was thriving. M. 
Mauperin had done very well with his refinery. His 
son was a barrister, his elder daughter married, and 
Renee's dowry was waiting for her. 



21 



Ill 

Every one had gone into the house, and in a 
corner of the drawing-room, with its chintz hangings 
gay with bunches of wild flowers, Henri Mauperin, 
Denoisel, and Reverchon were talking. Near to the 
chimney-pieCe, Mme. Mauperin, with great demon- 
strations of affection, was greeting her son-in-law and 
daughter, M. and Mme. Davarande, who had just ar- 
rived. She felt obliged on this occasion to make a 
display of family feeling and to exhibit her motherly 
love. 

The greeting between Mme. Mauperin and Mme. 
Davarande was scarcely over when a little old gentle- 
man entered the drawing-room quietly, wished Mme. 
Mauperin good-evening with his eyes as he passed, 
and walked straight across to the group where De- 
noisel was. 

This little gentleman wore a dress-coat and had 
white whiskers. He was carrying a portfolio under 
his arm. 

" Do you know that? " he asked Denoisel, taking 
him into a window recess and half opening his folio. 

22 



Renee Mauperin 

" That? I should just think I do. It's the ' Mys- 
terious Swing,' an engraving after Lavrience's." 

The little old gentleman smiled. 

" Yes, but look," he said, and he half opened his 
portfolio again, but in such a way that Denoisel could 
only just see inside. 

"'Before letters.' It's a proof before letters! 
Can you see? " 

" Perfectly." 

"And margins! — a gem, isn't it? They didn't 
give it me, I can tell you, the thieves! It was run up 
— and by a woman, too! " 

"Oh, of course!" 

" A cocotte, who asked to see it every time I went 
any higher. The rascal of an auctioneer kept saying, 
' Pass it to the lady.' At last I got it for five pounds 
eight. Oh, I wouldn't have paid one halfpenny more." 

" I should think not ! If I had only known — why, 
there's a proof like that, exactly like it, at Spindler's, 
the artist's — and with larger margins, too. He does 
not care about Louis Seize things, Spindler. If I had 
only asked him! " 

" Good heavens! — and before letters, like mine? 
Are you quite sure? " 

" Before letters — before — Oh, yes, it's an earlier 
one than yours. It's before — " and Denoisel whis- 
pered something to the old man which brought a 
flush of pleasure to his face and a moisture to his lips. 

23 



Renee Mauperin 



Just at this moment M. Mauperin entered the 
drawing-room with his daughter. She was leaning 
on his arm, her head slightly thrown back in an in- 
dolent way, rubbing her hair against the sleeve of 
her father's coat as a child does when it is being 
carried. 

" How are you? " she said as she kissed her sis- 
ter. She then held her forehead to her mother's lips, 
shook hands with her brother-in-law, and ran across 
to the little man with the portfolio. 

" Can I see, god-papa? " 

" No, little girl, you are not grown-up enough 
yet," he replied, patting her cheek in an affectionate 
way. 

" Ah, it's always like that with the things you 
buy! " said Renee, turning her back on the old man, 
who tied up the ribbon of his portfolio with the spe- 
cial little bow so familiar to the ringers of print col- 
lectors. 

" Well, what's this I hear? " suddenly exclaimed 
Mme. Mauperin, turning to her daughter. 

Reverchon was sitting next her, so near that her 
dress touched him every time she moved. 

" You were both carried away by the current," she 
continued. " It was dangerous, I am sure! Oh, that 
river! I really cannot understand how M. Mauperin 
allows " 

" Mme. Mauperin," replied her husband, who was 
24 



Renee Mauperin 

by the table looking through an album with his daugh- 
ter, " I do not allow anything — I tolerate " 

" Coward! " whispered Renee to her father 

" I assure you, mamma, there was no danger," put 
in Henri Mauperin. " There was no danger at all. 
They were just slightly carried along by the current, 
and they preferred holding on to a boat to going half 
a mile or so lower down the river. That was all! You 
see " 

" Ah, you comfort me," said Mme. Mauperin, the 
serenity of her expression gradually returning at her 
son's words. " I know you are so prudent, but, you 
see, M. Reverchon, our dear Renee is so foolish that 
I am always afraid. Oh, dear, there are drops of 
water on her hair now. Come here and let me brush 
them off." 

" M. Dardouillet! " announced a servant. 

" A neighbour of ours," said Mme. Mauperin in a 
low voice to Reverchon. 

" Well, and where are you now? " asked M. Mau- 
perin, as he shook hands with the new arrival. 

" Oh, we are getting on — we are getting on — 
three hundred stakes done to-day." 

" Three hundred? " 

" Three hundred — I fancy it won't be bad. From 
the green-house, you see, I am going straight along 
as far as the water, on account of the view. Fourteen 
or sixteen inches of slope — not more. If we were 

25 



Renee Mauperin 



on the spot I shouldn't have to explain. On the 
other side, you know, I shall raise the path about three 
feet. When all that's done, M. Mauperin, do you 
know that there won't be an inch of my land that 
will not have been turned over? " 

" But when shall you plant anything, M. Dardouil- 
let?" asked Mile. Mauperin. "For the last three 
years you have only had workmen in your garden; 
sha'n't you have a few trees in some day? " 

" Oh, as to trees, mademoiselle, that's nothing. 
There's plenty of time for all that. The most im- 
portant thing is the plan of the ground, the hills 
and slopes, and then afterward trees — if we want 
them." 

Some one had just come in by a door leading from 
another room. He had bowed as he entered, but no 
one had seen him, and he was there now without any 
one noticing him. He had an honest-looking face 
and a head pi hair Jike~a pen-wiper- It was M. Mau- 
perin's cashier, M. Bernard. 

"We are all here; has M. Bernard come down? 
Ah, that's right! " said M. Mauperin on seeing him. 
" Suppose we have dinner, Mme. Mauperin, these 
young people must be hungry." 

The solemnity of the first few moments when the 
appetite is keen had worn off, and the buzz of conver- 
sation could be heard in place of the silence with which 

26 



Renee Mauperin 



a dinner usually commences, and which is followed by 
the noise of spoons in the soup plates. 

" M. Reverchon," began Mme. Mauperin. She 
had placed the young man by her, in the seat of 
honour, and she was amiability itself, as far as he was 
concerned. She was most attentive to him and most 
anxious to please. Her smile covered her whole face, 
and even her voice was not her every-day voice, but a 
high-pitched one which she assumed on state occa- 
sions. She kept glancing from the young man to his 
plate and from his plate to a servant. It was a case 
of a mother angling for a son-in-law. " M. Rever- 
chon, we met a lady just recently whom you know — 
Mme. de Bonnieres. She spoke so highly of you — 
oh, so highly! " 

" I had the honour of meeting Mme. de Bonnieres 
in Italy — I was even fortunate enough to be able to 
render her a little service." 

"Did you save her from brigands?" exclaimed 
Renee. 

" No, it was much less romantic than that. Mme. 
de Bonnieres had some difficulty about the bill at 
her hotel. She was alone and I prevented her from 
being robbed." 

" It was a case of robbers, anyhow, then," said 
Renee. 

" One might write a play on the subject," put in 
Denoisel, " and it would be quite a new plot — the 

27 



Renee Mauperin 

reduction of a bill leading to a marriage. What a 
good title, too, ' The Romance of an Awkward Mo- 
ment, a la Rabelais! ' " 

" Mme. de Bonnieres is a very nice woman," con- 
tinued Mme. Mauperin. " I like her face. Do you 
know her, M. Barousse? " she asked, turning to Re- 
nte's godfather. 

" Yes, she is very pleasant." 

"Oh! why, god-papa, she's like a satyr!" ex- 
claimed Renee. 

When the word was out some of the guests smiled, 
and the young girl, turning red, hastened to add: " I 
only mean she has a face like one." 

"That's what I call mending matters!" said 
Denoisel. 

" Did you stay long in Italy, monsieur? " asked M. 
Mauperin, by way of changing the subject. 

" Six months." 

" And what did you think of it? " 

" It's very interesting, but one has so much dis- 
comfort there. I never could get used to drinking 
coffee out of glasses." 

" Italy is the most wretched place to go to; it is the 
least practical of all places," said Henri Mauperin. 
" What a state agriculture is in there — and trade, too! 
One day in Florence at a masked ball I asked the 
waiter at a restaurant if they would be open all night. 
' Oh, no, sir/ he said, ' we should have too many peo- 

28 



Renee Mauperin 



pie here.' That's a fact, I heard it myself, and that 
shows you what the country is. When one thinks of 
England, of that wonderful initiative power of individ- 
uals and of the whole nation, too; when one has seen 
the business genius of the London citizen and the prod- 
uce of a Yorkshire farm — Oh, a fine nation that! " 

" I agree with Henri," said Mme. Davarande, 
" there is something so distinguished about England. 
I like the politeness of the English people, and I 
approve of their way of always introducing peo- 
ple. Then, too, they wrap your change up in paper 
— and some of their dress materials have quite a style 
of their own. My husband bought me a poplin dress 
at the Exposition — Oh, mamma, I have quite de- 
cided about my cloak. I was at Alberic's — it's most 
amusing. He lets one of the girls put a cloak over 
your shoulders and then he walks round you and just 
marks with an ebony ruler the places where it does 
not fit; he scarcely touches you with it, but just gives 
little taps — like that — and the girl marks each tap with 
chalk. Oh, he certainly has a lot of character, that 
Alberic! And then he's the only one — there isn't an- 
other place — he has such good style for cloaks. I 
recognised two of his yesterday at the races. He is 
very expensive though." 

" Oh, those people get what they like to ask," 
said Reverchon. " My tailor, Edouard, has just re- 
tired — he's made over a hundred thousand pounds." 

29 



Renee Mauperin 



" Oh, well, quite right," remarked M. Barousse. 
" I'm always very glad when I see things like that. 
The workers get the money nowadays — that's just 
what it is. It's the greatest revolution since the be- 
ginning of the world." 

' Yes," said Denoisel, " a revolution that makes 
one think of the words of Chapon, the celebrated thief: 
1 Robbery, Monsieur le President, is the principal 
trade of the world! ' " 

" Were the races good? " asked Renee. 

" Well, there were plenty of people," answered 
Mme. Davarande. 

" Very good, mademoiselle," said Reverchon. 
" The Diana prize especially was very well run. 
Plume de coq, that they reckoned at thirty-five, was 
beaten by Basilicate by two lengths. It was very 
exciting. The hacks was a very good race, too, al- 
though the ground was rather hard." 

" Who is the Russian lady who drives four-in- 
hand, M. Reverchon? " asked Mme. Davarande. 

" Mme. de Rissleff. She has some splendid horses, 
some thoroughbred Orloffs." 

" You ought to join the Jockey Club, Jules, for the 
races," said Mme. Davarande, turning to her husband. 
" I think it is so common to be with everybody. 
Really if one has any respect for one's self — a woman 
I mean — there is no place but the jockey stand." 

" Ah, a mushroom patty! " exclaimed M. Barousse. 
30 



Renee Mauperin 

" Your cook is surpassing herself, she really is a veri- 
table cordon-bleu. I shall have to pay her my compli- 
ments before leaving." 

" I thought you never eat that dish," said Mme. 
Mauperin. 

" I did not eat it in 1848 — and I did not eat it 
up to the second of December. Do you think the 
police had time then to inspect mushrooms? But now 
that there is order again." 

" Henriette," said Mme. Mauperin to Mme. Dava- 
rande, " I must scold your husband. He neglects us. 
We have not seen you for three weeks, M. Dava- 
rande." 

" Oh, my dear mother, if you only knew all I 
have had to do! You know I am on very good terms 
with Georges. His father has his time taken up at 
the Chamber and the business falls on Georges as 
principal. There are hundreds of things that he can 
only trust to people in whom he has confidence — 
friends, in fact. There was that big affair — that debut 
at the Opera. There was no end of interviews and 
parleyings and journeys backward and forward. It 
would not have done to have had any strife between 
the two ministries. Oh, we have been very busy late- 
ly. He is so considerate that I could not " 

" So considerate? " put in Denoisel. " He might 
pay your cab-fares at least. It's more than two years 
since he promised you a sub-prefectship." 

3i 



Renee Mauperin 



" My dear Denoisel, it's more difficult than you 
imagine. And then, too, when one does not care 
about going too far from Paris. Besides, between 
ourselves, I can tell you that it's almost arranged. 
In about a month from now I have every reason to 
believe " 

" What debut were you speaking of? " asked Ba- 
rousse. 

" Bradizzi's," answered Davarande. 

''Ah, Bradizzi! Isn't she astounding!" said Re- 
verchon. "She has some runs that^are wonderfully 
light. The other day I was in the manager's box on 
the stage and we couldn't hear he ich the ground 
when she was dancing." 

"We expected to see you ye'/'-erday evening, 
Henri," said Mme. Davarande to her orother. 

" Yesterday I was at my lecture, "tie ans T ered. 

" Henri has been appointed repo/ter," said Mme. 
Mauperin proudly. 

" Ah," put in Denoisel, " the u Aguesseau lecture? 
That's still going on then, your speechifying affair? 
How many are there in it? " 

" Two hundred." 

" And all statesmen? It's quite ahrming. What 
were you to report on? " 

" A law that was proposed with reference to the 
National Guard." 

" You go in for everything," said Denoisel. 
32 



Renee Mauperin 



" I am sure you do not belong to the National 
Guard, Denoisel? " observed M. Barousse. 

"No, indeed!" 

" And yet it is an institution." 

" The drums affirm that it is that, M. Barousse." 

" And you do not vote either, I would wager? " 

" I would not vote under any pretext." 

" Denoisel, I am sorry to say so, but you are a bad 
citizen. You were born as you are, I am not blaming 
you, but the fact remains " 

" A bad citizen — what do you mean? " 

" Well, you are always in opposition to the laws." 

" I am? " 

" Yes, you are. Without going any farther back, 
take for instance the money you came into from your 
Uncle Frederic. You handed it over to his illegiti- 
mate chi' lren — -" 

"Whatofthrt?" 

" Well, that is ^ 7 hat I call an illegal action, most 
deplorable and bl; .xeworthy. What does the law 
mean? It is quite clear — the law means that chil- 
dren not born in wedlock should not be able to in- 
herit their father's money. You were not ignorant of 
this, for I told /ou that it was so; your lawyer told 
you and the code told you. What did you do? Why, 
you let the children have the money. You ignored 
the ^de, the spirit of the law, everything. To give 
up ^our uncle's fortune in that way, Denoisel, was 
3 33 



Renee Mauperin 



rendering homage to low morals. It was simply en- 
couraging " 

" I know your principles in the matter, M. Ba- 
rousse. But what was I to do? When I saw those 
three poor lads I said to myself that I should never 
enjoy the cigars I smoked with their bread-money. 
No one is perfect " 

" All that is not law. When there is a law there 
is some reason for it, is there not? The law 
is against immorality. Suppose others imitated 
you " 

" You need not fear that, Barousse," said M. Mau- 
perin, smiling. 

" We ought never to set a bad example," answered 
Barousse, sententiously. " Do not misunderstand 
me," he continued, turning to Denoisel. " I do not 
respect you any the less for it, on the contrary, I ap- 
preciate your disinterestedness, but as to saying that 
you were right — no, I cannot say that. It's the same 
with your way of living — that is not as it should be. 
You ought to have your time occupied — hang it all! 
You ought to do something, go in for something, 
take up some work, pay your debt to your country. 
If you had begun in good time, with your intelligence, 
you would perhaps have had a post bringing you in 
a thousand or more " 

" I have had a better thing than that offered me, 
M. Barousse." 

34 



Renee Mauperin 



" More money? " asked Barousse. 

" More money," answered Denoisel tranquilly. 

Barousse looked at him in astonishment. 

" Seriously," continued Denoisel, " I had the most 
brilliant prospects — just for five minutes. It was on 
the twenty-fourth of February, 1848. I did not know 
what to do with myself, for when one has done the 
Tuileries in the morning it rather unsettles one for 
the rest of the day. It occurred to me that I would 
go and call on one of my friends who has a Govern- 
ment appointment — a Government appointment, you 
know, on the other side of the water. I arrived, and 
there was no one there. I went upstairs into the min- 
ister's office where my friend worked — no friend there. 
I lighted a cigarette, intending to wait for him. A 
gentleman came in while I was smoking, and seeing 
me seated, imagined I belonged to the place. He 
had no hat on, so that I thought he also did. He 
asked me very politely to show him the way about 
the house. I took him round and then we came 
back. He gave me something to write down, just 
telling me the sense of it. I took my friend's pen 
and wrote. He then read it and was delighted. 
We talked; he admired my orthography. He shook 
hands with me and found I had gloves on. To 
cut it short, at the end of a quarter of an hour he 
was pressing me to be his secretary. It was the 
new minister." 

35 



* 



Renee Mauperin 

" And you did not accept? " 

" My friend arrived and I accepted for him. He is 
at present quite a high functionary in the Council of 
State. It was lucky for him to be supernumerary only 
half a day." 

They were having dessert, and M. Mauperin had 
pulled one of the dishes nearer and was just helping 
himself in an absent-minded way. 

" M. Mauperin!" exclaimed his wife, looking 
steadily at him. 

" I beg pardon, my dear — symmetry — you are 
quite right. I wasn't thinking," and he pushed the 
dish back to its place. 

" You always do disarrange things " 

" I'm sorry, my dear, I'm very sorry. My wife 
is an excellent woman, you know, gentlemen, but if 
you disarrange her symmetry for her — It's quite a 
religion with my wife — symmetry is." 

" How ridiculous you are, M. Mauperin! " said 
Mme. Mauperin, blushing at being convicted of the 
most flagrant provincialism; and then, turning upon 
her daughter, she exclaimed, " Oh, dear, Renee, how 
you stoop! Do sit up, my child " 

" That's always the way," murmured the young 
girl, speaking to herself. " Mamma avenges herself 
on me." 

" Gentlemen," said M. Mauperin, when they had 
returned to the drawing-room, " you can smoke here, 

36 



' 






1: JBM8 




' 


im^'i , 


-«fc"' 


' -* 




I w 1 ' 

^ifc- >■■■ 






gr 






■ * v y 

■■■■■: ; ;.;.; -3 t* #/ 


1 ' 


i . .. . . 


v*r< / 




■^.r' '*' 






■■'■:. 




■"■ :• /■ ■ ' . 




"'.^* ,. 





Renee Mauperin 



you know. We owe that liberty to my son. He has 
been lucky enough to obtain his mother's " 

" Coffee, god-papa? " asked Renee. 

" No," answered M. Barousse, " I shouldn't be 
able to go to sleep " 

'" Here," put in Renee, finishing his sentence for 
him. 

" M. Reverchon? " 

" I never take it, thank you very much." 

She went backward and forward, the steam from 
the cup of hot coffee she was carrying rising to her 
face and flushing it. 

" Is every one served? " she asked, and without 
waiting for any reply she sat down to the piano and 
struck the first notes of a polka. 

"Are we going to dance?" she asked, breaking 
off. " Let us dance — oh, do let us dance! " 

" Let us smoke in peace! " said M. Mauperin. 

" Yes, daddy," and going on with her polka she 
danced it herself on her music-stool, only touching 
the floor with her tip-toes. She played without look- 
ing at her notes, her face turned towards the drawing- 
room, smiling and animated, her eyes lighted up and 
her cheeks flushed with the excitement of the dance; 
like a little girl playing dance music for other people 
and moving about herself as she watches them. She 
swung her shoulders, her form swayed as though she 
were being guided along, while her whole body 

37 



Renee Mauperin 



marked the rhythm and her attitude seemed to indi- 
cate the step she was dancing. Then she turned to- 
wards the piano again and her eyes followed her hands 
over the black and white keys. Bending over the 
music she was playing, she seemed to be striking the 
notes, then caressing them, speaking to them, scolding 
them or smiling on them, and then lulling them to 
sleep. She would sustain the loud parts, then linger 
S. over the melody; there were movements that she 
would play with tenderness and others with little 
bursts of passion. She bent over the piano, then rose 
again, the light playing on the top of her tortoise-shell 
comb one moment, while the next moment it could 
scarcely be seen in her black hair. The two candles on 
the piano flickered to the noise, throwing a light over 
her profile or sending their flame over her forehead, 
her cheeks, and her chin. The shadow from her 
ear-rings — two coral balls — trembled all the time 
on the delicate skin of her throat, and her fingers 
ran so quickly over the keyboard that one could 
only see something pink flying backward and for- 
ward. 

" And it's her own composition," said M. Mau- 
perin to Reverchon. 

" She has had lessons from Quidant," added Mme. 
Mauperin. 

" There — I've finished!" exclaimed Renee, sud- 
denly leaving the piano and planting herself in front 

38 



Renee Mauperin 

of Denoisel. " Tell me a story now, Denoisel, to 
amuse me — anything you like." 

She was standing before him, her arms crossed and 
her head slightly thrown back, the weight of her body 
supported on one leg, and a mischievous, daring look 
on her face which lent additional grace to her slightly 
masculine dress. She was wearing a high collar of 
pique with a cravat of black ribbon, and the revers 
of her white front turned back over her jacket 
bodice of cloth. There were pockets on the front of 
her skirt. 

" When shall you cut your wisdom teeth, Re- 
nee? " asked Denoisel. 

" Never! " she answered, laughing. " Well, what 
about my story? " 

Denoisel looked round to see that no one was 
listening, and then lowering his voice began: 

" Once upon a time a papa and a mamma had a 
little daughter. The papa and mamma wished her 
to marry, and they sent for some very nice-looking 
gentlemen; but the little daughter, who was very nice- 
looking, too " 

" Oh, how stupid you are! — I'll get my work, 
there — " and taking her work out of a basket on 
the table she went and sat down by her mother. 

" Are we not going to have any whist to-night? " 
asked M. Mauperin. 

" Yes, of course, my dear," answered Mme. Mau- 
39 



Renee Mauperin 

perin. " The table is ready — you see there are only 
the candles to light." 

" Going, going, gone! " called out Denoisel in M. 
Barousse's ear. 

The old gentleman was just beginning to doze in a 
corner by the chimney-piece and his head was nodding 
like a passenger's in a stage-coach. M. Barousse 
started up and Denoisel handed him a card: 

" The King of Spades! before the letter! You are 
wanted at whist." 

" You are not over-tired this evening, madem- 
oiselle? " asked Reverchon, approaching Renee. 

"I? I could dance all night. That's how I 
feel." 

" You are making something — very pretty " 

"This? — oh, yes, very pretty! It is a stocking — 
I am knitting for my little poor children. It's warm, 
that's all it is. I am not very clever with my needle, 
you know. With embroidery and wool-work you 
have to think about what you are doing, but with 
this, you see, your fingers go; it just makes itself when 
once you start, and you can think about anything — 
the Grand Turk if you like " 

" I say, Renee," observed M. Mauperin, " it's odd; 
it's no good my losing, I can't catch up again." 

" Oh, that's clever — I shall remember that for my 
collection," answered Renee. " Denoisel, come here," 
she called out, suddenly, " come here a minute — 

40 



Renee Mauperin 



nearer — nearer still. Will you come here at once — 
there now — kneel down " 

"Are you mad, child?" exclaimed Mme. Mau- 
perin. 

" Renee," said Denoisel, " I believe you have 
made up your mind to prevent my getting mar- 
ried." 

"Come, come, Renee!" said M. Mauperin pa- 
ternally from the card-table. 

" Well — what is it? " asked Renee threatening 
Denoisel playfully with a pair of scissors. " Now if 
you move ! Denoisel's head always looks untidy — his 
hair is badly cut — he always has a great, ugly lock 
that falls over his forehead. It makes people squint 
when they look at him. I want to cut that lock. 
There — he's afraid. Why, I cut hair very well — you 
ask papa," and forthwith she gave two or three clips 
with her scissors, and then crossing over to the fire- 
place, shook the hair into the grate. " If you fancy 
it was for the sake of getting a lock of your hair — " 
she said, turning round as she spoke. 

She had paid no attention to the nudge her brother 
had given her as she passed. Her mother, who an in- 
stant before was perfectly crimson, was now pale, but 
Renee had not noticed that. Her father left the whist- 
table and came across to her with an embarrassed ex- 
pression, looking as though he were vexed with her. 
She took the cigarette which he had lighted from 

4i 



Renee Mauperin 

him, put it between her own lips, and drawing a puff 
of smoke, blew it away again quickly, turning her 
head away, coughing and blinking. "Ugh! — how 
horrid it is! " 

" Well, really, Renee! " exclaimed Mme. Mauperin 
severely, and evidently in great distress, " I really 
don't know — I have never seen you like this " 

" Bring the tea in," said M. Mauperin to a servant 
who had entered in answer to his peal at the bell. 



42 



IV 

" A quarter past ten already! " said Mme. Dava- 
rande. " We shall only just have time to get to the 
station. Renee, tell them to bring me my hat." 

Every one rose. Barousse woke up from his nap 
with the noise, and the little band of guests from Paris 
set out for Saint-Denis. 

" I'll come with you," said Denoisel. " I should 
like a breath of air." 

Barousse was in front, arm-in-arm with Rever- 
chon. The Davarandes followed, and Henri Mauperin 
and Denoisel brought up the rear. 

"Why don't you stay all night? You could go 
back to Paris to-morrow," Denoisel began. 

" No," answered Henri, " I won't do that. I have 
some work to do to-morrow morning. I should get 
to Paris late and my day would be wasted." 

They were silent, and every now and then a few 
words from Barousse to Reverchon in praise of Renee 
came to them through the silence of the night. 

" I say, Denoisel, I'm afraid it is all up with that, 
don't you think so? " 

" Yes, I think it is." 

43 



Renee Mauperin 



> 



" Oh, dear! Will you tell nie, my dear fellow, 
what made you humour Renee in all the nonsense 
that came into her head this evening? You have a 
great deal of influence over her and " 

" My dear boy," answered Denoisel, puffing at his 
cigar, " you must let me give you a social, philosophi- 
cal, and historical parenthesis. We have quite fin- 
ished, have we not, and when I say we, I mean the ma- 
jority of the French people, with the pretty little 
young ladies who used to talk like mechanical dolls. 
They could say • papa ' and ' mamma,' and when they 
went to a dance they never lost sight of their parents. 
The little childlike young lady who was always so 
timid and bashful and who used to blush and stammer, 
brought up to be ignorant of everything, neither 
knowing how to stand up on her legs nor how to sit 
down on a chair — all that sort of thing's done with, 
old-fashioned, worn out. That was the marriageable 
young lady of the days of the Gymnase Theatre. 
There is nothing of that kind nowadays. The process 
of culture has changed; it used to be a case of the 
fruit-wall, but at present the young person grows in 
the open. We ask a girl now about her impressions 
and we expect her to say what she thinks naturally 
and originally. She is allowed to talk, and indeed is 
expected to talk, about everything, as that is the 
accepted thing now. She need no longer act sweet 
simplicity, but native intelligence. If only she can 

44 



Renee Mauperin 

shine in society her parents are delighted. Her 
mother takes her to classes. If she should have any 
talent it is encouraged and cultivated. Instead of or- 
dinary governesses she must have good masters, pro- 
fessors from the Conservatoire, or artists whose pic- 
tures have been hung. She goes in for being an artist 
and every one is delighted. Come, now, isn't that the 
way girls are being educated now in middle-class so- 
ciety? ' 

" And the result? " 

" Now, then," continued Denoisel without an- 
swering the question, " in the midst of this education, 
which I am not criticising, remember — in the midst of 
all this, let us imagine a father who is an excellent 
sort of man, goodness and kindness personified, en- 
couraging his daughter in her new freedom by his 
weakness and his worship of her. Let us suppose, for 
instance, that this father has countenanced all the dar- 
ing and all the mischievousness of a boy in a woman, 
that he has allowed his daughter little by little to cul- 
tivate manly accomplishments, which he sees with 
pride and which are after his own heart " 

" And you, my dear fellow, who know my sister 
so well and the way she has been brought up, the 
style she has gone in for, authorized as she considers 
herself (thanks to father's indulgence), you, knowing 
how difficult it is to get her married, allowed her to 
do all kinds of unseemly things this evening when 

45 



Renee Mauperin 

you might have stopped her short with just a few 
words such as you always find to say and which you 
alone can say to her? " 

The friend to whom Henri Mauperin was speak- 
ing, Derioisel, was the son of a compatriot, and old 
school friend and brother-in-arms of M. Mauperin. 
The two men had been in the same battles, they had 
shed their blood in the same places, and during the 
retreat from Russia they had eaten the same horse- 
flesh. 

A year after his return to France, M. Mauperin 
had lost this friend, who on his death-bed had left him 
guardian to his son. The boy had found a second 
father in his guardian. When at college, he had spent 
all his holidays at Morimond, and he looked upon the 
Mauperins as his own family. 

When M. Mauperin's children came it seemed to 
the young man that a brother and sister had been just 
what he had wanted; he felt as though he were their 
elder brother, and he became a child again in order to 
be one with them. 

His favourite was, of course, Renee, who when 
quite little began to adore him. She was very lively 
and self-willed and he alone could make her listen to 
reason and obey. As she grew up he had been the 
moulder of her character, the confessor of her intel- 
lect, and the director of her tastes. His influence over 

46 



Renee Mauperin 

the young girl had increased day by day as they grew 
more and more familiar. A room was always kept 
ready for Denoisel in the house, his place was always 
kept for him at table, and he came whenever he liked 
to spend a week with the Mauperins. 

" There are days," continued Henri, " when Re- 
nte's nonsense does not matter, but this evening — 
before that man. It will be all off with that mar- 
riage, I'm sure! It would have been an excellent 
match — he has such good prospects. He's just the 
man in every respect — charming, too, and distin- 
guished." 

" Do you think so? For my part, I should have 
been afraid of him for your sister. That is really 
the reason why I behaved as I did this evening. That 
man has a sort of common distinction about him — a 
distinction made up of the vulgarity of all kinds of 
elegancies. He's a fashion poster, a tailor's model, 
morally and physically. There's nothing, absolutely 
nothing, in a little fellow like that. A husband for 
your sister — that man? Why, how in the world do 
you suppose he could ever understand her? How \ J 
is he ever to discover all the warmth of feeling 
and the elevation and nobility of character hidden 
under her eccentricities? Can you imagine them hav- 
ing a thought in common? Good heavens! if your 
sister married, no matter whom, so long as the man 

47 



Renee Mauperin 

were intelligent and had some character and individ- 
uality, as long as there were something in him that 
would either govern or appeal to a nature like hers 
— why, I would say nothing. A man has often 
great faults which appeal to a woman's heart. He 
may be a bad lot, and there is the chance that she 
will go on loving him through sheer jealousy. With 
a busy, ambitious man like you she would have all the 
thought and excitement and all the dreams about his 
career to occupy i.^r mind. But a dandy like that for 
life! Why, your sister would be absolutely wretched; 
she would die of misery. She isn't like other girls, 
you know, your sister — one must take that into con- 
sideration. She is high-minded, untrammelled by 
conventionalities, very fond of fun, and very affection- 
ate. At bottom she is a melancolique tintamarresque" 

" A melancolique tintamarresque? What does that 
mean? " 

" I'll explain. She " 

"Henri, hurry up!" called out Davarande from 
the platform. " They are getting into the train. I 
have your ticket." 



48 



M. and Mme. Mauperin were in their bed-room. 
The clock had just struck midnight gravely and slow- 
ly, as though to emphasize the solemnity of that con- 
fidential and conjugal moment which is both the 
tete-a-tete of wedded life and the secret council of the 
household — that moment of transformation and magic 
which is both bourgeois and diabolic, and which re- 
minds one of that story of the woman metamor- 
phosed into a cat. The shadow of the bed falls mys- 
teriously over the wife, and as she lies down there is a 
sort of charm about her. Something of the bewitch- 
ments of a mistress come to her at this instant. Her 
will seems to be roused there by the side of the marital 
will which is dormant. She sits up, scolds, sulks, 
teases, struggles. She has caresses and scratches for 
the man. The pillow confers on her its force, her 
strength comes to her with the night. 

Mme. Mauperin was putting her hair in papers 

in front of the glass, which was lighted by a single 

candle. She was in her skirt and dressing-jacket. 

Her stout figure, above which her little arms kept 

4 49 



Renee Mauperin 



moving as if she were crowning herself, threw on 
the wall a fantastic outline of a woman of fifty in 
deshabille, and on the paper at the end of the room 
could be seen wavering about one of those corpulent 
shadows which one could imagine Hoffman and Dau- 
mier sketching from the back of the beds of old 
married couples. M. Mauperin was already lying 
down. 

" Louis! " said Mme. Mauperin. 

" Well? " answered M. Mauperin, with that accent 
of indifference, regret, and weariness of a man who, 
with his eyes still open, is beginning to enjoy the de- 
light of the horizontal position. 

" Oh, if you are asleep " 

" I am not asleep. What is it? " 

" Oh, nothing. I think Renee behaved most im- 
properly this evening; that's all. Did you notice? " 

" No, I wasn't paying any attention." 

" It's just a whim. There isn't the least reason in 
it. Hasn't she said anything to you? Do you know 
anything? I'm nowhere — with all your mysteries and 
secrets. I'm always the last to know about things. 
It's quite different with you — you are told everything. 
It's very fortunate that I was not born jealous, don't 
you think so? " 

M. Mauperin pulled the sheet up over his shoulder 
without answering. 

" You certainly are asleep," continued Mme. Mau- 
50 



Renee Mauperin 

perin in the sharp, disappointed tone of a woman who 
is expecting a parry for her attack. 

" I told you I wasn't asleep." 

" Then you surely don't understand. Oh, these in- 
telligent men — it's curious. It concerns you though, 
too; it's your business quite as much as mine. This 
is another marriage fallen through — do you under- . 
stand? A marriage that was most suitable — money — 
good family — everything. I know what these hesi- 
tations mean. We may as well give up all idea of it. 
Henri was talking to me about it this evening; the 
young man hadn't said anything to him; of course, 
he's too well-bred for that. But Henri is quite per- 
suaded that he's drawing out of it. One can always 
tell in matters of this kind; people have a way of " 

" Well, let him draw out of it then; what do you 
want me to say? " M. Mauperin sat straight up and 
put his two hands on his thighs. " Let him go. There 
are plenty of young men like Reverchon; he is not 
unique, we can find others; while girls like my daugh- 
ter " 

"Good heavens! Your daughter — your daugh- 
ter!" 

" You don't do her justice, Therese." 

"I? Oh, yes, I do; but I see her as she is and 
not with your eyes. She has her faults, and great 
faults, too, which you have encouraged — yes, you. 
She is as heedless and full of freaks as a child of ten. 

5i 



Renee Mauperin 



If you imagine that it doesn't worry me — her unrea- 
sonableness, her uncertain moods, and so many other 
absurdities ever since we have been trying to get her 
married! And then her way of criticising every one 
to whom we introduce her. She is terrible at inter- 
views of this kind. This makes about the tenth man 
she has sent about his business." 

At Mme. Mauperin's last words a gleam of pa- 
ternal vanity lighted up M. Mauperin's face. 

" Yes, yes," he said, smiling at the remembrance, 
" the fact is she is diabolically witty. Do you recol- 
lect her words about that poor Prefect: ' Oh, he's a 
regular old cock! ' I remember how she said it di- 
rectly she saw him." 

" It really is very funny, and above all very fit and 
proper. Jokes of this kind will help her to get mar- 
ried, take my word for it. Such things will induce 
other men to come forward, don't you think so? I 
am quite certain that Renee must have a reputation 
for being a terror. A little more of her precious wit 
and you will see what proposals you will get for your 
daughter! I married Henriette so easily! Renee is 
my cross." 

M. Mauperin had picked up his snuff-box from the 
table by the side of the bed and appeared to be intent 
on turning it round between his thumb and first 
finger. 

"Well," continued Mme. Mauperin, "it's her 
52 



Renee Mauperin 

own lookout. When she is thirty, when she has 
refused every one, and there is no one left who wants 
her, in spite of all her wit, her good qualities and 
everything else, she will have time to reflect a little — 
and you will, too." 

There was a pause. Mme. Mauperin gave M. 
Mauperin time enough to imagine that she had fin- 
ished, and then changing her tone she began again: 

" I want to speak to you, too, about your 
son " 

Hereupon M. Mauperin, whose head had been bent 
while his wife was talking, looked up, and there was a 
half smile of mischievous humour on his face. In the 
upper as well as the lower middle class there is a cer- 
tain maternal love capable of rising to the height of 
passion and of sinking to mere idolatry. There are 
mothers who in their affection and love will fall down 
and worship their son. Theirs is not that maternal 
love which veils its own weaknesses, which defends 
its rights, is jealous of its duties, which is careful 
about the hierarchy and discipline of the family, 
and which commands respect and consideration. The 
child, brought near to his mother by all kinds of 
familiarity, receives from her attentions which are 
more like homage, and caresses in which there is a 
certain amount of servility. All the mother's dreams 
are centred in him, for he is not only the heir but the 
whole future of the family. Through him the family 

53 



Renee Mauperin 



) 



will reap the benefits of wealth, of all the improve- 
ments and progressive rise of the bourgeoisie from 
one generation to another. The mother revels in 
the thought of what he is and what he will be. She 
loves him and is glorified herself in him. She dedi- 
cates all her ambitions to him and worships him. This 
son appears to her a superior being, and she is amazed 
that he should have been born of her; she seems to feel 
the mingled pride and humility of the mother of a 
god. 

Mme. Mauperin was a typical example of one of 
these mothers of modern middle-class life. The 
merits, the features, the intellect of her son were for 
her those of a divinity. His whole person, his accom- 
plishments, everything he said and everything he did, 
all was sacred to her. She would spend her time in 
contemplation of him; she saw no one else when he 
was there. It seemed to her as though the whole 
world began and ended in her son. He was in her 
eyes perfection itself, the most intelligent, the hand- 
somest, and, above all, the most distinguished of men. 
He was short-sighted and wore an eye-glass, but she 
would not even own that he was near-sighted. 

When he was there she watched him talk, sit down 
or walk about, and she would smile at him when his 
back was turned. She liked the very creases of his 
coat. When he was not there she would lean back 
for a few minutes in her arm-chair and some reminis- 

54 



Renee Mauperin 

cence of infinite sweetness would gradually brighten 
and soften her face. It was as though light, restful- 
ness, and peace had suddenly come to her; her ex- 
pression was joyous at such times, her eyes were 
looking at something in the past, her heart was 
living over again some happy moment, and if any 
one spoke to her she seemed to wake up out of a 
dream. 

It was in a certain measure hereditary, this in- 
tense maternal love. Mme. Mauperin came of a race 
which had always loved its sons with a warm, violent, 
and almost frenzied love. The mothers in her family 
had been mothers with a vengeance. There was a 
story told of her grandmother in the Haute -Marne. 
It was said that she had disfigured a child with a burn- 
ing coal who had been considered handsomer than her 
own boy. 

At the time of her son's first ailments Mme. Mau- 
perin had almost lost her reason; she had hated all 
children who were well, and had hoped that God would 
kill them if her son died. Once when he had been 
seriously ill she had been forty-eight nights with- 
out going to bed, and her legs had swelled with fa- 
tigue. When he was about again he had been allowed 
anything and everything. If any one came to com- 
plain to her that he had been fighting with the vil- 
lage children she would say feelingly: " Poor little 
dear! " As the boy grew up his mother's spirit pre- 

55 



Renee Mauperin 

ceded him on his walk through life, strewing his 
pathway with hope as he emerged into manhood. She 
thought of all the heiresses in the neighbourhood 
whose age would be suitable to his. She used to imag- 
ine him visiting at all the country-houses, and she 
saw him on horseback, riding to the meet in a red 
coat. She used to be fairly dazzled by all her dreams 
of the future. 

Then came the time when he went away to col- 
lege, the time when she had to separate from him. 
Mme. Mauperin struggled for three months to keep 
her son, to have him educated at home by a tutor, but 
M. Mauperin was resolute on this score. All that 
Mme. Mauperin could obtain from him was the per- 
mission to select the college for her son. She chose 
one with the mildest discipline possible, one of those 
colleges for the children of wealthy parents, where 
there is no severity, where the boys are allowed to eat 
pastry when they are taking their walks, and where 
the professors believe in more theatrical rehearsals 
than punishments. During the seven years he was 
there, Mme. Mauperin never missed a single day go- 
ing from Saint-Denis to see him during the recrea- 
tion hour. Rain, cold, fatigue, illness, nothing pre- 
vented her. In the parlour or in the courtyard the 
other mothers pointed her out to each other. The boy 
would kiss her, take the cakes she had brought him, 
and then, telling her he had a lesson to finish learn- 

56 



' 



Renee Mauperin 



ing, he would hurry back to his games. It was quite 
enough for his mother, though, for she had seen him 
and he was well. She was always thinking about his 
health. He was weighed down with flannel, and in 
the holidays she fed him well with meat, giving him all 
the gravy from underdone beef so that he should grow 
strong and tall. She bought him a small mat to sit 
on at school because the forms were so hard. There 
were separate bed-rooms for the pupils, and Mme. 
Mauperin furnished her son's like a man's room. At 
twelve years of age he had a rosewood dressing-table 
and chest of drawers of his own. The boy became a 
young man, the young man left college, and Mme. 
Mauperin's passion for him increased with all that 
satisfaction which a mother feels in a tall son when his 
looks begin to change and his beard makes its first ap- 
pearance. Forgetting all about the tradespeople 
whose bills she had paid, she was amazed at the style in 
which her son dressed, at his boots, and the way in 
which he did his hair. There was a certain elegance of 
taste in everything that he liked, in his luxurious 
habits, in his ways, and in his whole life, to which she 
bowed down in astonishment and delight, as though 
she herself were not the mainspring of it all and his 
cashier. Her son's valet did not seem to her like an 
ordinary domestic; his horse was not merely a horse, 
it was her son's horse. When her son went out she 
gave orders that she should be told so that she might 

57 



Renee Mauperin 

have the satisfaction of seeing him get into the car- 
riage and drive away. 

Every day she was more and more taken up with 
this son. She had no diversions, nothing to occu- 
py her imagination; she did not read, and had grown 
old living with a husband who had brought her no 
love and whom she had always felt to be quite apart 
from her, engrossed as he had ever been in his studies, 
politics, and business. She had no one left with her 
but a daughter to whom she had never given her 
whole heart, and so she had ended by devoting her life 
to Henri's interests and putting all her vanity into his 
future. And her one thought — the thought which oc- 
\ cupied every hour of her days and nights, her fixed 
idea — was the marriage of this adored son. She want- 
ed him to marry well, to make a match which should 
be rich enough and brilliant enough to make up to 
her and repay her for all the dulness and obscurity of 
her own existence, for her life of economy and soli- 
tude, for all her own privations as wife and mother. 

" Do you even know your son's age, M. Mau- 
perin? " continued Mme. Mauperin. 

" Henri, why, my dear, Henri must be — He 
was born in 1826, wasn't he? " 

" Oh, that's just like a father to ask! Yes, 1826, 
the 12th of July, 1826." 

" Well, then, he is twenty-nine. Fancy that now, 
he is twenty-nine! " 

58 



Renee Mauperin 

"And you fold your arms and take things easily! 
You don't trouble in the least about his future! You 
say, ' Fancy that now, he's twenty-nine ' — just like 
that, quite calmly! Any other man would stir 
himself and look round. Henri isn't like his sister, 
he wants to marry. Have you ever thought of rinding 
a suitable match for him — a wife? Oh, dear, no, not 
any more than for the King of Prussia, of course not! 
It's just the same as it was for your elder daughter. 
I should like to know what you did towards that mar- 
riage? Whether she found any one or not, it appeared 
to be all the same to you. How I did have to urge 
you on to do anything in the matter! Oh, you can 
wipe your hands of that marriage; your daughter's 
happiness can't weigh much on your conscience, I 
should, think! If I had not been there you would 
have found a husband like M. Davarande, shouldn't 
you? A model husband, who adores Henriette — and 
such a gentleman! " 

Mme. Mauperin blew out the candle and got into 
bed by the side of M. Mauperin, who had turned over 
with his face towards the wall. 

" Yes," she went on, stretching herself out full 
length under the sheets, " a model husband! Do you 
imagine that there are many sons-in-law who would 
be so attentive to us? He would do anything to give 
us pleasure. You invite him to dinner and give him 
meat on fasting-days and he never says a word. Then, 

59 



Renee Mauperin 



too, he is so obliging. I wanted to match some wools 
for my tapestry-work the other day " 

" My dear, what is it we were talking about? I 
must tell you that I should like to get a bit of sleep 
to-night. You began with your daughter, and now 
you've started the chapter of M. Davarande's perfec- 
tions. I know that chapter — there's enough to last 
till to-morrow morning. Come now, you want your 
son to marry, don't you? That's it, isn't it? Well, 
I'm quite willing — let's get him married." 

" Just as though I could count on you for getting 
him married! A lot of trouble you'll go to about it; 
you are the right sort of man to inconvenience your- 
self for anything." 

" Oh, come, come, my dear, that's unjust. It 
seems to me that about a fortnight ago I showed you 
what I was capable of. To go and listen to the dullest 
of operas, to eat ices at night, which is a thing I 
detest, and to talk about the weather with a provin- 
cial man who shouted about his daughter's dowry on 
the boulevards. If you don't call that inconveniencing 
myself! I suppose you'll say it didn't come to any- 
thing? Was it my fault, though, if the gentleman 
wanted ' a handsome, manly husband,' as he put it, for 
his daughter? Is it my fault and mine only if our 
son has not the frame of a Hercules? " 

" M. Mauperin " 

" Oh, yes, it is, of course. I am to blame for 
60 



Renee Mauperin 



everything, according to you. You would make me 

pass everywhere for a selfish " 

" Oh, you are like all men! " 
" Thank you on behalf of them all." 
" No, it's in your character — it's no good blaming 
you. It's only the mothers who worry. Ah, if you 
were only like I am; if at every instant you were 
thinking of what might happen to a young man. I 
know Henri is sensible; but a young man's fancy is 
so quickly caught. It might be some worthless crea- 
ture — some bad lot — one never knows — such things 
happen every day. I should go mad! What do you 
say to sounding Mme. Rosieres? Shall we? " 

There was no reply, and Mme. Mauperin was 
obliged to resign herself to silence. She turned over 
and over, but could not sleep until daylight appeared. 



61 



VI 

" Ah, what's that mean? Where in the world are 
you going? " asked M. Mauperin in the morning as 
Mme. Mauperin stood at the glass putting on a black 
lace cape. 

" Where am I going? " said Mme. Mauperin, fas- 
tening the cape to her shoulder with one of the two 
pins she was holding in her mouth. " Is my cape too 
low down? Just look." 

" No." 

" Pull it a little." 

" How fine you are! " said M. Mauperin, stepping 
back and examining his wife'.s dress. 

She was wearing a black dress of the most ele- 
gant style, in excellent taste though somewhat severe 
looking. 

" I am going to Paris." 

"Oh! you are going to Paris? What are you 
going to do in Paris? " 

" Oh, dear, how you do worry always with your 
questions: * Where are you going? What are you 
going to do? ' You really want to know, do you? " 

62 



Renee Mauperin 



" Well, I was only asking you " 

" My dear, I am going to confession," said Mme. 
Mauperin, looking down. 

M. Mauperin was speechless. His wife in the early 
days of her married life had gone regularly on Sun- 
days to church. Later she had accompanied her 
daughters to their catechism class, and these were 
all the religious duties he had ever known her to ac- 
complish. For the last ten years it seemed to him that 
she had been as indifferent as he was about such 
things — naturally and frankly indifferent. When the 
first moment of stupefaction had passed, he opened his 
mouth to speak, looked at her, said nothing, and, turn- 
ing suddenly on his heels, went out of the room hum- 
ming a kind of air to which music and words were 
about all that were missing. 

On arriving at a handsome, cheerful-looking house 
in the Rue de la Madeleine, Mme. Mauperin went 
upstairs to the fourth story and rang at a door where 
there was no attempt at any style. It was opened 
promptly. 

" M. l'Abbe Blampoix? " 

" Yes, madame," answered a servant-man in black 
livery. 

He spoke with a Belgian accent and bowed as he 
spoke. He took Mme. Mauperin across the entrance- 
hall, where a faint odour was just dying away, 

63 



Renee Mauperin 



and through a dining-room flooded with sunshine, 
where the cloth was simply laid for one person. Mme. 
Mauperin then found herself in a drawing-room 
decorated and scented with flowers. Above a harmo- 
nium with rich inlaid work was a copy of Correggio's 
" Night." On another panel, framed in black, was 
the Communion of Marie Antoinette and of her gen- 
darmes at the Conciergerie, lithographed according to 
a story that was told about her. Keepsakes, a hun- 
dred little things that might have been New Year's 
gifts, filled the brackets. A small bronze statue of 
Canova's " Madeleine " was on a table in the middle 
of the room. 

The tapestry chairs, each one of a different design 
and piously worked by hand, were evidently presents 
which devoted women had done for the abbe. 

There were men and women waiting there, and 
each by turn went into the abbe's room, stayed a 
few minutes, then came out again and went away. 
The last person waiting, a woman, stayed a long time, 
and when she came out of the room Mme. Mauperin 
could not see her face through her double veil. 

The abbe was standing by his chimney-piece when 
Mme. Mauperin entered. He was holding apart the 
flaps of his cassock like the tails of a coat. 

The Abbe Blampoix had neither benefice nor par- 
ish. He had a large connection and a specialty: he 

6 4 



Renee Mauperin 



was the priest of society people, of the fashionable 
world, and of the aristocracy. He confessed the fre- 
quenters of drawing-rooms, he was the spiritual di- 
rector of well-born consciences, and he comforted those 
souls that were worth the trouble of comforting. He 
brought Jesus Christ within reach of the wealthy. 
" Every one has his work to do in the Lord's vine- 
yard," he used often to say, appearing to groan and 
bend beneath the burden of saving the Faubourg 
Saint-Germain, the Faubourg Saint-Honore, and the 
Chaussee-d'Antin. 

He was a man of common sense and intellect, an 
obliging sort of priest who adapted everything to the 
precept, " The letter killeth, and the spirit maketh alive." 
He was tolerant and intelligent, could comprehend 
things and could smile. He measured faith out ac- 
cording to the temperament of the people and only 
gave it in small doses. He made the penances light, 
he loosened the bonds of the cross and sprinkled the 
way of salvation with sand. From the hard, unlovely, 
stern religion of the poor he had evolved a pleasant 
religion for the rich; it was easy, charming, elastic, 
adapting itself to things and to people, to all the ways 
and manners of society, to its customs and habits, and 
even to its prejudices. Of the idea of God he had 
made something quite comfortable and elegant. 

The Abbe Blampoix had all the fascination of the 
priest who is well educated, talented, and accom- 
s 65 



Renee Mauperin 



plished. He could talk well during confession, and 
could put some wit into his exhortations and a cer- 
tain graciousness into his unction. He knew how to 
move and interest his hearers. He was well versed in 
words that touch the heart and in speeches that are 
flattering and pleasing to the ear. His voice was mu- 
sical and his style flowery. He called the devil " the 
Prince of evil" and the eucharist " the Divine ali- 
ment "! He abounded in periphrases as highly col- 
oured as sacred pictures. He talked of Rossini, 
quoted Racine, and spoke of " the Bois " for the Bois 
de Boulogne. He talked of divine love in words which 
were somewhat disconcerting, of present-day vices 
with piquant details, and of society in society lan- 
guage. Occasionally, expressions which were in 
vogue and which had only recently been invented, ex- 
pressions only known among worldly people, would 
slip into his spiritual consultations and had the same 
effect as extracts from a newspaper in an ascetic book. 
There was a pleasant odour of the~c£ntu£^ about him. 
His priestly robe seemed to be impregnated with all 
the pretty little sins which had approached it. He was 
very well up and always to the point with regard to 
subtle temptations, admirably shrewd, keen, and tact- 
ful in his discussions on sensuality. Women doted 
on him. 

His first step, his debut in the ecclesiastical career, 
had been distinguished by a veritable seduction and 

66 



Renee Mauperin 



capturing of souls, by a success which had been a per- 
fect triumph and indeed almost a scandal. After 
taking the catechism classes for a year in the parish 

of B , the archbishop had appointed him to other 

work, putting another priest in his place. The result 
of this was a rebellion, as all the girls who had attended 
the catechism classes refused to speak or listen to the 
newcomer. They had lost their young hearts and 
heads, and there were tears shed by all the flock, a 
regular riot of wailing and sorrow, which before long 
changed into revolt. The elder girls, the chief mem- 
bers of the society, kept up the struggle several 
months. They agreed together not to go to the 
classes, and they went so far as to refuse to hand over 
to the cure the cash-box which had been intrusted 
to them. It was with the greatest difficulty that they 
were appeased. 

The success which all this augured to the Abbe 
Blampoix had not failed him. His fame had quickly 
spread. That great force, Fashion, which in Paris 
affects everything, even a priest's cassock, had taken 
him up and launched him. People came to him 
from all parts. The ordinary, commonplace confes- 
sions were heard by other priests, but all the choice 
sins were brought to him. Around him was always 
to be heard a hubbub of great names, of large for- 
tunes, of pretty contritions, and the rustling of beau- 
tiful dresses. Mothers consulted him about taking 

6 7 



Renee Mauperin 



their daughters out, and the daughters were instruct- 
ed by him before going into society. He was ap- 
pealed to for permission to wear low-necked dresses, 
and he was the man who regulated the modesty of 
ball costumes and the propriety of reading certain 
books. He was also asked for titles of novels and 
lists of moral plays. He prepared candidates for con- 
firmation and led them on to marriage. He baptized 
children and listened to the confession of the adulter- 
ous in thought. Wives who considered themselves 
slighted or misunderstood came to him to lament over 
the materiality of their husbands, and he supplied them 
with a little idealism to take back to their homes. All 
who were in trouble or despair had recourse to him, 
and he ordered a trip to Italy for them, with music 
and painting for diversions and a good confession in 
Rome. 

Wives who were separated from their husbands ad- 
dressed themselves to him when they wanted to return 
quietly to their home. His conciliations came between 
the love of wives and the jealousy of mothers-in-law. 
He found governesses for the mothers and lady's maids 
of forty years of age for young wives. Newly married 
wives learned from him to secure their happiness and 
to keep their husband's affection by their discreet and 
dainty toilettes, by cleanliness and care, by the spot- 
lessness and elegance of their linen. " My dear child," 
he would say sometimes, " a wife should have just a 

68 



Renee Mauperin 



faint perfume of the lorette about her." His experi- 
ence intervened in questions of the hygiene of mar- 
riage. He was consulted on such matters as maternity 
and pregnancy. He would decide whether a wife 
should become a mother and whether a mother should 
suckle her child. 

This vogue and role, the dealings that he had with 
women and the possession of all their secrets, so many 
confidences and so much knowledge on all subjects, 
his intercourse of all kinds with the dignitaries and 
lady-treasurers of various societies, and the acquaint- 
ance he had, thanks to the steps he was obliged to 
take in the interests of charity, with all the important 
personages of Paris, all the influence that, as a clever, 
discreet, and obliging priest, he had succeeded in ob- 
taining, had given to the Abbe Blampoix an im- 
mense power and authority which radiated silently 
and unseen. Worldly interests and social ambitions 
were confessed to him. Nearly all the marriage- 
able individuals in society were recommended to 
this priest, who professed no political preferences, 
who mixed with every one, and who was admirably 
placed for bringing families together, for uniting 
houses, arranging matches of expediency or balancing 
social positions, pairing off money with money, or 
joining an ancient title to a newly made fortune. It 
was as though marriages in Paris had an occult Provi- 
dence in the person of this rare sort of man in whom 

69 



Renee Mauperin 



were blended the priest and the lawyer, the apostle 
and the diplomatist — Fenelon and M. de Foy. The 
Abbe Blampoix had an income of sixteen hundred 
pounds, the half of which he gave to the poor. He 
had refused a bishopric for the sake of remaining what 
he was — a priest. 

" To whom have I the honour," began the abbe, 
who appeared to be searching his memory for a name. 

" Mme. Mauperin, the mother of Mme. Dav- 
arande." 

" Oh, excuse me, madame, excuse me. Your 
family are not persons whom one could forget. Do 
sit down, please — let me give you this arm-chair." 

And then, taking a seat himself with his back to the 
light, he continued: 

" I like to think of that marriage, which gave me 
the opportunity of making your acquaintance — the 
marriage of your daughter with M. Davarande. You 
and I, madame, you, with the devotion of a mother, 
and I — well, with just the feeble insight of a humble 
priest — brought about a truly Christian marriage, a 
marriage which has satisfied the needs of the dear 
child as regards her religion and her affection and 
which was also in accordance with her social position. 
Mme. Davarande is one of my model penitents; I am 
thoroughly satisfied with her. M. Davarande is an 
excellent young man who shares the religious beliefs 
of his wife, and that is a rare thing nowadays. One's 

70 



Renee Mauperin 

mind is easy about such happy and superior young 
couples, and I am quite convinced beforehand that 
you have not come about either of these dear chil- 
dren " 

" You are right. I am quite satisfied as regards 
them, and their happiness is a great joy in my life. 
It is such a responsibility to get one's children mar- 
ried. No, monsieur, it is not for them that I have 
come; it is for myself." 

" For yourself — madame? " 

And the abbe glanced quickly at her with an ex- 
pression which softened just as quickly. 

" Ah, monsieur, time brings many changes. One 
has a hundred things to think about before one 
reaches my age. There are the people one meets, 
and society ties, and all that is very entertaining. We 
give ourselves up to such things, enjoy them and 
count on them. We fancy we shall never need any- 
thing beyond. Well, now, monsieur, I have reached 
the age when one does need something beyond. You 
will understand me, I am sure. I have begun to feel 
the emptiness of the world. Nothing interests me, 
and I should like to come back to what I had given 
up. I know how indulgent and charitable you are. 
I need your counsel and your hand to lead me back 
to duties that I have neglected far too long, although 
I have always remembered and respected them. You 
must know T how wretched I am, monsieur." 

7i 



Renee Mauperin 



While speaking thus, with that easy flow of words 
so natural to a woman, and especially to a Parisian 
woman, and which in Parisian slang is known as bagou, 
Mme. Mauperin, who had avoided meeting the 
priest's eyes, which she had felt fixed on her, now 
glanced mechanically at a light which was being 
stirred by the abbe's hands and which flamed up under 
a ray of sunshine, shining brightly in the midst of this 
room — the severe-looking, solemn, cold room of a 
man of business. This light came from a casket con- 
taining some diamonds with which the abbe was idly 
playing. 

"Ah, you are looking at this!" said the abbe, 
catching Mme. Mauperin's eye and answering her 
thoughts instead of her phrases. " You are surprised 
to see it, are you not? Yes, a jewel-case, a case of 
diamonds — and just look at them — rather good ones, 
too." He passed her the necklace. " It's odd for 
that to be here, isn't it? But what was I to do? This 
is our modern society. We are obliged to see a little 
of all sorts. Such a pitiful scene! I don't feel myself 
again yet, after it — such sobs and tears ! Perhaps you 
heard — a poor young wife throwing herself down here 
at my feet — a mother of a family, madame! Alas! 
that's how the world is — this is what the love of finery 
and the fondness of admiration will lead to. People 
spend and spend, until finally they can only pay the in- 
terest of what they owe at the shops. Yes, indeed, 

72 



Renee Mauperin 



madame, that happens constantly. I could mention 
the shops. People hope to be able to pay the capi- 
tal some day; they count on a son-in-law to whom they 
can tell everything and who will only be too happy 
to pay his mother-in-law's debts. But in the mean- 
time the shops get impatient; and at last they threaten 
to tell the husband everything. Then — oh, just think 
of the anguish then! Do you know that this woman 
talked just now of throwing herself into the river? I 
had to promise to find her twelve hundred pounds. 
I beg your pardon, though — a thousand times. Here 
I am talking of my own affairs. Let us go back to 
yours. You had another daughter — a charming girl. 
I prepared her for confirmation. Let me see, now, 
what was her name? " 
, " Renee." 

" Oh, yes, of course, a very intelligent child, very 
quick — quite an exceptional character. Tell me now, 
isn't she married? " 

" No, monsieur, and it's a great trouble to me. 
You've no idea what a headstrong girl she is. She 
is nothing like her sister. It's very unfortunate for 
a mother to have a daughter with a character like 
hers. I would rather she were a little less intelligent. 
We have found most suitable matches for her, and 
she refuses them in the most thoughtless, foolish 
way. There was another one yesterday. And her 
father spoils her so." 

73 



Renee Mauperin 



" Ah, that's a pity. You have, no idea what a ma- 
ternal affection we have for these dear children that 
we have led to Christ. But you don't say anything 
about your son, a delightful young man, so good- 
looking — and just the age to marry, it seems to 
me " 

" Do you know him, monsieur? " 

" I had the pleasure of meeting him once at his 
sister's, at Mme. Davarande's, when I went to see 
her during her illness; those are the only visits we 
pay, you know — visits to the sick. Then, too, I have 
heard all sorts of good reports about him. You are 
a fortunate mother, madame. Your son goes to 
church, and at Easter he took communion with the 
Jesuit Fathers. He has not told you, probably, but he 
was one of those society men, true Christians, who 
waited nearly all night to get to the confessional — 
there was such a crowd. Yes, people do not believe it, 
but, thank God, it is quite true. Some of the young 
men waited until five o'clock in the morning to con- 
fess. I need not tell you how deeply the Church is 
touched by such zeal, how thankful she is to those 
who give her this consolation and who pay her this 
homage in these sad times of demoralization and in- 
credulity. We are drawn towards young men who 
set such a good example and who are so willing to 
do what is right, and we are always ready to give 
them what help we can and to use any influence 

74 



Renee Mauperin 



that we may have in certain families in their 
favour." 

" Oh, monsieur, you are too good. And our grati- 
tude — mine and my son's — if only you would interest 
yourself on his behalf. What a happy thought it was 
to come to you! You see I came to you as a woman, 
but as a mother too. My son is angelic — and then, 
monsieur, you can do so much." 

The abbe shook his head with a deprecatory smile 
of mingled modesty and melancholy. 

" No, madame, you overestimate our power. We 
are far from all that you say. We are able to do 
a little good sometimes, but it is with great diffi- 
culty. If only you knew how little a priest can do in 
these days. People are afraid of our influence; they 
do not care to meet us outside the church, nor to 
speak to us except in the confessional. You your- 
self, madame, would be surprised if your confessor 
ventured to speak to you about your daily conduct. 
Thanks to the deplorable prejudices of people with 
regard to us, every one's object is to keep us at a dis- 
tance and to stand on the defensive." 

" Oh, dear, why, it is one o'clock — and I saw that 
your table was laid when I came. I'm quite ashamed 
of myself. May I come again in a few days? " 

" My luncheon can always wait," said the Abbe 
Blampoix, and turning to a desk covered with papers 
at his side, he made a sign to Mme. Mauperin to sit 

75 



Renee Mauperin 



down again. There was a moment's silence, broken 
only by the rustle of papers which the abbe was turn- 
ing over. Finally he drew out a visiting-card, turned 
down at the corner, from under a pile of papers, held 
it to the light, and read: 

" Twelve thousand pounds in deeds and prefer- 
ence shares. Six hundred pounds a year from the day 
of marriage; father and mother dead. Twenty-four 
thousand pounds on the death of some uncles and 
aunts who will never marry. Young girl, nineteen, 
charming, much prettier than she imagines herself to 
be. You see," said the abbe, putting the card back 
among the papers. " Think it over. Anyhow, you 
will see. I have, too, at this very moment a thousand 
pounds a year on her marriage — an orphan — Ah, no, 
that would not do — her guardian wants to find some 
one who is influential. He is sub-referendary judge 
on the Board of Finance and he will only marry his 
ward to a son-in-law who can get him promoted. 
Ah, wait a minute — this would do, perhaps," and he 
read aloud from some notes: "Twenty-two years of 
age, not pretty, accomplished, intelligent, dresses well, 
father sixty thousand pounds, three children, substan- 
tial fortune. He owns the house in the Rue de Prov- 
ence, where the offices of the Security are, an estate 
in the Orne, eight thousand pounds in the Credit 
Foncier. Rather an opinionated sort of man, of Por- 
tuguese descent. The mother is a mere cipher in 

76 



Renee Mauperin 

the house. There is no family, and the father would 
be. annoyed if you went to see his relatives. I am 
not keeping anything back, as you see; a family din- 
ner party once a year and that is all. The father will 
give twelve thousand pounds for the dowry; he wants 
his daughter to live in the same house. 

" Yes," continued the abbe, looking through his 
notes, " that's all I see that would do for you just now. 
Will you talk it over with your son, madame, and con- 
sult your husband? I am quite at your service. When 
I have the pleasure of seeing you here again, will you 
bring with you just a few figures, a little note that 
would give me an idea of your intentions with regard 
to settling your son. And bring your daughter with 
you. I should be delighted to see the dear child 
again." 

" Would you mind fixing some time when I should 
not disturb you quite so much as I have done to-day, 
monsieur? " 

" Oh, madame, my time belongs to every one who 
has need of me, and I am only too much honoured. 
The thing is that in a fortnight's time — if you came 
then, I should be in the country, and I only come 
one day a week to Paris, then. Yes, it's a sheer neces- 
sity, and so I have had to make up my mind to it. 
By the end of the winter I get so worn out; I have 
so much to attend to, and then these four flights of 
stairs kill me. But what am I to do? I am obliged 

77 



Renee Mauperin 

to pay in some way for the right of having my chapel, 
for the precious privilege of being able to have mass 
in my own home. No one could sleep over a chapel, 
you see. Ah, an idea has just struck me: why should 
you not come to see me in the country — at Colombes? 
It would be a little excursion. I have plenty of fruit, 
and I take a landowner's pride in my fruit. I could 
offer you luncheon, a very informal luncheon. Will 
you come, madam e — and your daughter? Would 
your son give me the pleasure of his company too? " 



78 



VII 

A quarter of an hour later a footman in a red 
coat opened the door of a flat on a first floor in the 
Rue Taitbout in answer to Mme. Mauperin's ring. 

" Good-morning, Georges. Is my son in? " 

" Yes, madame, monsieur is there." 

Mme. Mauperin had smiled on her son's domes- 
tic, and as she walked along she smiled on the rooms, 
on the furniture, and on everything she saw. When 
she entered the study her son was writing and smok- 
ing at the same time. 

"Well, I never!" he exclaimed, taking his cigar 
out of his mouth and leaning his head against the back 
of his chair for his mother to kiss him. " It's you, 
is it, mamma? " he went on, continuing to smoke. 
" You didn't say a word about coming to Paris to- 
day. What brings you here? " 

" Oh, I had some shopping and some visits to 
pay — you know I am always behind. How comfort- 
able you are here! " 

" Ah, yes, to be sure, you hadn't seen my new 
arrangements." 

79 



Renee Mauperin 



" Dear me, how well you do arrange everything! 
There's no one like you, really. It isn't damp here 
is it, are you quite sure? " and Mme. Mauperin put 
her hand against the wall. " Tell Georges to air the 
room always when you are away, won't you? " 

" Yes, yes, mother," said Henri in a bored way, as 
one answers a child. 

" Oh, why do you have those? I don't like your 
having such things." Mme. Mauperin had just 
caught sight of two swords above the bookcase. "The 
very sight of them! When one thinks — " and Mme. 
Mauperin closed her eyes for an instant and sat down. 
" You don't know how your dreadful bachelor life 
makes us poor mothers tremble. If you were mar- 
ried, it seems to me that I should not be so wor- 
ried about you. I do wish you were married, 
Henri!" 

" I do, too, I can assure you." 

"Really? Come, now — mothers, you know — well, 
secrets ought not to be kept from them. I am so 
afraid, when I look at you, handsome as you are, and 
so distinguished and clever and fascinating. You are 
just the sort of man that any one would fall in love 
with, and I'm so afraid " 

"Of what?" 

" Lest you should have some reason for not " 



" For not marrying, you mean, don't you? A 
chain — is that what you mean? " 

80 



Renee Mauperin 



Mme. Mauperin nodded and Henri burst out 
laughing. 

" Oh, my dear mamma, if I had one, make your 
mind easy, it should be a polished one. A man who has 
any respect for himself would not wear any other." 

"Well, then, tell me about Mile. Herbault. It 
was your fault that it all came to nothing." 

" Mile. Herbault? The introduction at the Opera 
with father? Oh, no, it wasn't that. Yes, yes, I 
remember, the dinner at Mme. Marquisat's, wasn't 
it — the last one? That was a trap you laid for 
me. I must say you are sweetly innocent! I was 
announced: ' Mossieu Henri Mauperin/ in that grand, 
important sort of way which being interpreted meant: 
' Behold the future husband! ' I found all the candles 
in the drawing-room lighted up. The mistress of the 
house, whom I had seen just twice in my life, over- 
powered me with her smiles; her son, whom I did not 
know at all, shook hands with me. There was a lady 
with her daughter in the room, they neither of them 
appeared to see me. My place at dinner was next 
the young person, of course; a provincial family, their 
money placed in farms, simple tastes, etc. I discov- 
ered all that before the soup was finished. The 
mother, on the other side of the table, was keeping 
watch over us; an impossible sort of mother, in such 
a get-up! I asked the daughter whether she had seen 
the ' Prophet ' at the Opera. ' Yes, it was superb — 
6 8i 



Renee Mauperin 

and then there was that wonderful effect in the third 
act. Oh, yes, that effect, that wonderful effect.' She 
hadn't seen it any more than I had. A fibber to begin 
with. I entertained myself with keeping her to the 
subject, and that made her crabby. We went back 
to the drawing-room and then the hostess began: 
'What a pretty dress!' she said to me. 'Did you 
notice it? Would you believe that Emmeline has had 
that dress five years. I can remember it. She is so 
careful — so orderly!' 'All right,' I thought to my- 
self, ' a lot of miserly wretches who mean to take me 
in.' " 

" Do you really think so? And yet, from what 
we were told about them " 

" A woman who makes her dresses last five years! 
That speaks for itself, that's quite enough. I can 
picture the dowry hoarded up in a stocking. The 
money would be in land at two and a half per cent; 
repairs, taxes, lawsuits, farmers who don't pay their 
rent, a father-in-law who makes over to you unsal- 
able property. No, no, I'm not quite young enough. 
I want to get married, but I mean to marry well. 
Leave me to manage it, and you'll see. You can 
make your mind easy; I'm not the sort to be taken 
in with : ' She has such beautiful hair and she is so devoted 
to her mother!' You see, mamma, I've thought a great 
deal about marriage, although you may not imagine I 
have. The most difficult thing to get in this world, 

82 



Renee Mauperin 

the thing we pay the most dearly for, snatch from each 
other, fight for, the thing we only obtain by force of 
genius or by luck, by meanness, privations, by wild 
efforts, perseverance, resolution, energy, audacity or 
work, is money — isn't that so? Now money means 
happiness and the honour of being rich, it means en- 
joyment, and it brings with it the respect and esteem of 
the million. Well, I have discovered that there is a way 
of getting it, straightforwardly and promptly, with- 
out any fatigue, without difficulty and without genius, 
quite simply, naturally, quickly and honourably; and 
this way is by marriage. Another thing I have discov- 
ered is that there is no need to be remarkably hand- 
some nor astonishingly intelligent in order to make a 
rich marriage; the only thing necessary is to will it, 
to will it coolly, calmly and with all one's force of will- 
power, to stake all one's chances on that card; in fact 
to look upon getting married as one's object in life, 
one's future career. I see that in playing that game it 
is no more difficult to make an extraordinary marriage 
than an ordinary one, to get a dowry of fifty thousand 
pounds than one of five thousand; it is merely a ques- 
tion of cool-headedness and luck; the stake is the same 
in both cases. In our times when a good tenor can 
marry an income of thirty thousand pounds arithmetic 
becomes a thing of the past. All this is what I have 
wanted to explain to you, and I am sure you will un- 
derstand me." 

83 



Renee Mauperin 



Henri Mauperin took his mother's hand in his as 
he spoke. She was fairly aghast with surprise, admi- 
ration, and a sentiment very near akin to respect. 

" Don't you worry yourself," continued her son. 
" I shall marry well — better even perhaps than you 
dream of." 

As soon as his mother had gone Henri took up his 
pen and, continuing the article he had commenced 
for the Revue economique, wrote: "The trajectory of 
humanity is a spiral and not a circle " 



84 



VIII 

Henri Mauperin's age, like that of so many 
present-day young men, could not be reckoned by the 
years of his life; he was of the same age as the times in 
which he lived. The coldness and absence of enthusi- 
asm in the younger generation, that distinguishing 
mark of the second half of the nineteenth century, had 
set its seal on him entirely. He looked grave, and one 
felt that he was icy cold. One recognised in him those 
elements, so contrary to the French temperament, 
which constitute in French history sects without ar- 
dour and political parties without enthusiasm, such as 
the Jansenism of former days and the Doctrinarianism 
of to-day. 

Henri Mauperin was a young Doctrinaire. He had 
belonged to that generation of children whom nothing 
astonishes and nothing amuses; who go, without the 
slightest excitement, to see anything to which they 
are taken and who come back again perfectly un- 
moved. When quite young he had always been well 
behaved and thoughtful. At college it had never hap- 
pened to him in the midst of his lessons to go off in a 

85 



Renee Mauperin 

dream, his face buried in his hands, his elbows on a dic- 
tionary and his eyes looking into the future. He had 
never been assailed by temptations with regard to the 
unknown and by those first visions of life which at the 
age of sixteen fill the minds of young men with trouble 
and delight, shut up as they are between the four walls 
of a courtyard with grated windows, against which 
their balls bounce and over and beyond which their 
thoughts soar. In his class there were two or three 
boys who were sons of eminent political men and with 
them he made friends. While studying classics he was 
thinking of the club he should join later on. On leav- 
ing college Henri's conduct was not like that of a 
young man of twenty. He was considered very steady, 
and was never seen in places where drinking and 
gambling went on and where his reputation might 
have suffered. He was to be met with in staid draw- 
ing-rooms, where he was always extremely attentive 
and polite to ladies who were no longer young. All 
that would have gone against him elsewhere served 
him there in good stead. His reserve was consid- 
ered an attraction, his seriousness was thought fasci- 
nating. 

There are fashions with regard to what finds fa- 
vour in men. The reign of Louis Philippe, with its 
great wealth of scholars, had just accustomed the po- 
litical and literary circles of Paris to value in a society 
man that something which recalls the cap and gown, 

86 



Renee Mauperin 



that a professor takes about with him everywhere, 
even when he has become a minister. 

With women of the upper middle class the taste for 
gay, lively, frivolous qualities of mind had been suc- 
ceeded by a taste for conversation which savoured of 
the lecture-room, for science direct from the pro- 
fessor's chair, for a sort of learned amiability. A 
pedant did not alarm them, even though he might 
be old; when young he was made much of, and it 
was rumoured that Henri Mauperin was a great fa- 
vourite. 

He had a practical mind. He set up for being a 
believer in all that was useful, in mathematical truths, 
positive religions and the exact sciences. He had a 
certain compassion for art, and maintained that Boule 
furniture had never been made as well as at present. 
Political economy, that science which leads on to 
all things, had appealed to him when he went out into 
the world as a vocation and a career, consequently he 
had decided to be an economist. He had brought to 
this dry study a narrow-minded intelligence, but he 
had been patient and persevering, and now, once a 
fortnight, he published in important reviews a long 
article well padded with figures which the women 
skipped and the men said they had read. 

By the interest which it takes in the poorer 
classes, by its care for their welfare and the algebraic 
account it keeps of all their misery and needs, political 

%7 



Renee Mauperin 



economy had, of course, given to Henri Mauperin a 
colouring of Liberalism. It was not that he belonged 
to a very decided Opposition: his opinions were mere- 
ly a little ahead of Government principles, and his 
convictions induced him to make overtures to what- 
ever was likely to succeed. He limited his war 
against the powers that were to the shooting of an 
arrow or to a veiled allusion, the key and meaning 
of which he would by means of his friends convey to 
the various salons. As a matter of fact, he was carry- 
ing on a flirtation, rather than hostilities, with the 
Government in power. Drawing-room acquaint- 
ances, people whom he met in society, brought him 
within reach of Government influence and into touch 
with Government patronage. He would prepare the 
works and correct the proofs of some high official 
who was always busy and who had scarcely time to do 
more than sign his books. He had managed to get on 
good terms with his Prefect, hoping through him to 
get into the Council and afterward into the Chamber. 
He excelled in playing double parts, and was clever at 
compromises and arrangements which kept him in 
touch with everything without quarrelling with any- 
body or anything. Though a liberal and political 
economist, he had found a way of turning aside the 
distrust of the Catholics and their enmity against 
himself and his doctrines. He had won the indul- 
gence and sympathy of some of them, and had man- 

88 



Renee Mauperin 

aged to make himself agreeable to the clergy and to 
flatter the church by linking together material prog- 
ress and spiritual progress, the religion of political 
economy and that of Catholicism: Quesnay and Saint 
Augustin, Bastiat and the Gospel, statistics and God. 
Then besides this programme of his, the alliance of 
Religion and Political Economy, he had a reserve 
stock of piety, and he observed most regularly certain 
religious practices, which won for him the affectionate 
regard of the Abbe Blampoix and brought him into 
secret communion with believers and with those who 
observed their religious duties. 

Henri Mauperin had taken his flat in the Rue 
Taitbout for the purpose of entertaining his friends. 
These entertainments consisted of solemn parties for 
young men, where the guests would gather round a 
table which looked like a desk and talk about Natural 
Law, Public Charities, Productive Forces, and the 
Multiplicabilite of the Human Species. Henri tried 
to turn these reunions into something approaching 
conferences. He was selecting the men and looking 
for the elements he would require for the famous salon 
he hoped to have in Paris as soon as he was married; 
he lured to his reunions the great authorities and 
notabilities of economic science, and invited to a sort 
of honorary presidency members of the Institute, 
whom he had pursued with his politeness and his news- 
paper puffs and who, according to his plans, would 

8 9 



Renee Mauperin 



some day help him to take his seat among them in 
the moral and political science section. 

It was, however, in turning associations to ac- 
count that Henri had shown his talent and all his 
skill He had from the very first clung to that great 
means of getting on peculiar to ciphers — that means 
by which a man is no longer one alone, but a unit 
joined to a number. He had gained a footing for 
himself in associations of every kind. He had joined 
the d'Aguesseau Debating Society and had glided 
in and taken his place among all those young 
men who were practising speech-making, educating 
themselves for the platform, doing their apprentice- 
ship as orators and their probation as statesmen for 
future parliamentary struggles. Clubs, college re- 
unions and banquets of old boys, barriers' lectures, 
historical and geographical societies, scientific and 
benevolent societies, he had neglected nothing. 
Everywhere, in all centres which give to the indi- 
vidual an opportunity of shining and which bring 
him any profit by the collective influence of a group, 
he appeared and was here, there and everywhere, 
making fresh acquaintances, forming new connec- 
tions, cultivating friendships and interests which 
might lead him on to something, thus driving in 
the landmarks of his various ambitions, marching 
ahead, from the committee of one society to the com- 
mittee of another society, to an importance, a sort of 

90 



Renee Mauperin 



veiled notoriety and to one of those names which, 
thanks to political influence, are suddenly brought to 
the front when the right time comes. 

He certainly was well qualified for the part he was 
playing. Eloquent and active, he could make all the 
noise and stir which lead a man on to success in this 
century of ours. He was commonplace with plenty of 
show about him. In society he rarely recited his own 
articles, but he usually posed with one hand in his 
waistcoat, after the fashion of Guizot in Delaroche's 
portrait. 



9i 



IX 

"Well! " exclaimed Renee, entering the dining- 
room at eleven o'clock, breathless like a child who had 
been running, " I thought every one would be down. 
Where is mamma? " 

" Gone to Paris — shopping," answered M. Mau- 
perin. 

" Oh! — and where's Denoisel? " 

" He's gone to see the man with the sloping 
ground, who must have kept him to luncheon. We'll 
begin luncheon." 

"Good-morning, papa!" And instead of taking 
her seat Renee went across to her father and putting 
her arms round his neck began to kiss him. 

"There, there, that's enough — you silly child!" 
said M. Mauperin, smiling as he endeavoured to free 
himself. 

" Let me kiss you tong- fashion — there — like that," 
and she pinched his cheeks and kissed him again. 

" What a child you are, to be sure." 

" Now look at me. I want to see whether you 
care for me." 

92 



Renee Mauperin 



And Renee, standing up after kissing him once 
more, moved back from her father, still holding his 
head between her hands. They gazed at each other 
lovingly and earnestly, looking into one another's 
eyes. The French window was open and the light, the 
scents and the various noises from the garden pene- 
trated into the room. A beam of sunshine darted 
on to the table, lighted on the china and made the 
glass glitter. It was bright, cheerful weather and a 
faint breeze was stirring; the shadows of the leaves 
trembled slightly on the floor. A vague sound of 
wings fluttering in the trees and of birds sporting 
among the flowers could be heard in the distance. 

" Only we two; how nice! " exclaimed Renee, un- 
folding her serviette. " Oh, the table is too large; 
I am too far away," and taking her knife and fork 
she went and sat next her father. " As I have my 
father all to myself to-day I'm going to enjoy my 
father," and so saying she drew her chair still nearer 
to him. 

" Ah, you remind me of the time when you al- 
ways wanted to have your dinner in my pocket. But 
you were eight years old then." 

Renee began to laugh. 

" I was scolded yesterday," said M. Mauperin, 
after a minute's silence, putting his knife and fork 
down on his plate. 

" Oh! " remarked Renee, looking up at the ceiling 
93 



Renee Mauperin 



in an innocent way and then letting her eyes fall on 
her father with a sly look in them such as one sees in 
the eyes of a cat. " Really, poor papa! Why were 
you scolded? What had you done? " 

" Yes, I should advise you to ask me that again; 
you know better than I do myself why I was scolded. 
What do you mean, you dreadful child? " 

" Oh, if you are going to lecture me, papa, I shall 
get up and — I shall kiss you." 

She half rose as she said this, but M. Mauperin 
interrupted her, endeavouring to speak in a severe 
tone: 

" Sit down again, Renee, please. You must own, 
my dear child, that yesterday " 

" Oh, papa, are you going to talk to me like this 
on such a beautiful day? " 

" Well, but will you explain? " persisted M. 
Mauperin, trying to remain dignified in face of the 
rebellious expression, made up of smiles mingled with 
defiance, in his daughter's eyes. " It was very evi- 
dent that you behaved in the way you did pur- 
posely." 

Renee winked mischievously and nodded her head 
two or three times affirmatively. 

" I want to speak to you seriously, Renee." 

" But I am quite serious, I assure you. I have 
told you that I was like that on purpose." 

" And why — will you tell me that? " 
94 



Renee Mauperin 



"Why? Oh, yes, I'll tell you, but on condition 
that you won't be too conceited. It was because — 
because " 

" Because of what?" 

" Because I love you much more than that gen- 
tleman who was here yesterday — there now — very 
much more — it's quite true! " 

" But, then, we ought not to have allowed him 
to come if you did not care for this young man. We 
didn't force you into it. It was you yourself who 
agreed that he should be invited. On the contrary, 
your mother and I believed that this match " 

" Excuse me, papa, but if I had refused M. Rever- 
chon at first sight, point-blank, you would have said 
I was unreasonable, mad, senseless. I fancy I can 
hear mamma now on the subject. Whereas, as things 
were, what is there to reproach me with? I saw M. 
Reverchon once, and I saw him again, I had plenty 
of time to judge him and I knew that I disliked him. 
It is very silly, perhaps, but it is nevertheless " 

" But why did you not tell us? We could have 
found a hundred ways of getting out of it." 

" You are very ungrateful, papa. I have saved 
you all that worry. The young man is drawing out 
of it himself and it is not your fault at all; I alone am 
responsible. And this is all the gratitude I get for my 
self-sacrifice! Another time " 

" Listen to me, my dear. If I speak to you like 
95 



Renee Mauperin 

this it is because it is a; question of your marriage. 
Your marriage — ah, it took me a long time to get 
reconciled to the idea that — to the idea of being sepa- 
rated from you. Fathers are selfish, you see; they 
would like it better if you never took to yourself 
wings. They have the greatest difficulty in making 
up their minds to it all. They think they cannot be 
happy without your smiles, and that the house will 
be very different when your dress is not flitting about. 
But we have to submit to what must be, and now 
it seems to me that I shall like my son-in-law. I am 
getting old, you know, my dear little Renee," and M. 
Mauperin took his daughter's hands in his. " Your 
father is sixty-eight, my child, he has only just time 
enough left to see you settled and happy. Your fu- 
ture, if only you knew it, is my one thought, my one 
torment. Your mother loves you dearly, too, I know, 
but your character and hers are different; and then, 
if anything happened to me. You know we must 
face things; and at my age. You see the thought of 
leaving you without a husband — and children — with- 
out any love which would make up to you for your 
old father's when he is no longer with you " 

M. Mauperin could not finish; his daughter had 
thrown her arms round him, stifling down her sobs, 
and her tears were flowing freely on his waistcoat. 

" Oh, it's dreadful of you, dreadful! " she said in a 
choking voice. " Why do you talk about it? Never 

9 6 



Renee Mauperin 



— never! " and with a gesture she waved back the 
dark shadow called up by her imagination. 

M. Mauperin had taken her on his knee. He put 
his arms round her, kissed her forehead and said, 
" Don't cry, Renee, don't cry! " 

"How dreadful! Never!" she repeated once 
more, as though she were just rousing herself from 
some bad dream, and then, wiping her eyes with the 
back of her hand, she said to her father: " I must go 
away and have my cry out," and with that she es- 
caped. 

" That Dardouillet is certainly mad," remarked 
Denoisel, as he entered the room. " Just fancy, I 
could not possibly get rid of him. Ah, you are 
alone?" 

" Yes, my wife is in Paris, and Renee has just 
gone upstairs." 

" Why, what's the matter, M. Mauperin? You 
look " 

" Oh, it's nothing — a little scene with Renee that 
I've just had — about this marriage — this Reverchon. 
I was silly enough to tell her that I am in a hurry 
to see my grandchildren, that fathers of my age are 
not immortal, and thereupon — the child is so sensi- 
tive, you know. She is up in her room now, crying. 
Don't go up; it will take her a little time to recover. 
I'll go and look after my work-people," 
7 97 



Renee Mauperin 



Denoisel, left to himself, lighted a cigar, picked 
up a book and went out to one of the garden seats to 
read. He had been there about two hours when he 
saw Renee coming towards him. She had her hat on 
and her animated face shone with joy and a sort of 
serene excitement. 

"Well, have you been out? Where have you 
come from? " 

" Where have I come from? " repeated Renee, un- 
fastening her hat. " Well, I'll tell you, as you are my 
friend," and she took her hat off and threw her head 
back with that pretty gesture women have for shak- 
ing their hair into place. " I've come from church, 
and if you want to know what I've been doing there, 
why, I've been asking God to let me die before papa. 
I was in front of a large statue of the Virgin — you 
are not to laugh — it would make me unhappy if you 
laughed. Perhaps it was the sun or the effect of gaz- 
ing at her all the time, I don't know, but it seemed 
to me all in a minute that she did like this — " and 
Renee nodded her head. " Anyhow, I am very happy 
and my knees ache, too, I can tell you; for all the 
time I was praying I was on my knees, and not on a 
chair or a cushion either — but on the stone floor. Ah, 
I prayed in earnest; God can't surely refuse me that! " 



98 



X 

A few days after this M. and Mme. Mauperin. 
Henri, Renee, and Denoisel were sitting together 
after dinner in the little garden which stretched out 
at the back of the house, between the walls of the 
refinery and its outbuildings. The largest tree in the 
garden was a fir, and the rose-trees had been allowed 
to climb up to its lowest branches, so that its green 
arms stirred the roses. Under the tree was a swing, 
and at the back of it a sort of thicket of lilacs and 
witch-elms; there* was a round plot of grass, with a 
garden bench and a very small pool with a white 
curbstone round it and a fountain that did not play. 
The pool was full of aquatic plants and a few black 
newts were swimming in it. 

" You don't intend to have any theatricals, then, 
Renee? " Henri was saying to his sister. " You've 
quite given up that idea? " 

" Given up — no; but what can I do? It isn't my 
fault, for I would act anything — I'd stand on my head. 
But I can't find any one else, so that, unless I give a 
monologue — Denoisel has refused, and as for you, 

99 



Renee Mauperin 



a sober man like you — well, I suppose it's no use 
asking." 

" I, why, I would act right enough," answered 
Henri. 

" You, Henri? " exclaimed Mme. Mauperin in as- 
tonishment. 

" And then, too, we are not short of men," con- 
tinued Renee, " there are always men to act. It's for 
the women's parts. Ah, that's the difficulty — to find 
ladies. I don't see who is to act with me." 

" Oh," said Henri, " if we look about among all 
the people we know, I'll wager " 

"Well, let's see: there's M. Durand's daughter. 
Why, yes — what do you think? M. Durand's daugh- 
ter? They are at Saint-Denis; that will be conve- 
nient for the rehearsals. She's rather a simpleton, 
but I should think for the role of Mme. de Cha- 



vigny 

" Ah," put in Denoisel, " you still want to act 
'The Caprice'?" 

" Now for a lecture, I suppose? But as I'm going 
to act with my brother " 

" And the performance will be for the benefit of 
the poor, I hope? " continued Denoisel. 

"Why?" 

" It would make the audience more disposed to 
be charitable." 

" We'll see about that, sir, we'll see about it. Well, 
ioo 



Renee Mauperin 



Emma Durand — will that do? What do you think, 
mamma? " 

" They are not our sort of people, my dear," an- 
swered Mme. Mauperin quickly; " they are all very 
well at a distance, people like that, but every one 
knows where they sprang from — the Rue St. Ho- 
nore. Mme. Durand used to go and receive the ladies 
at their carriage-door, and M. Durand would slip 
out at the back and take the servant-men to have 
a glass at the wine-shop round the corner. That's 
how the Durands made their fortune." 

Although at bottom Mme. Mauperin was an ex- 
cellent sort of woman she rarely lost an opportunity 
of depreciating, in this way and with the most superb 
contempt and disgust, the wealth, birth and position 
of all the people she knew. It was not out of spite, 
nor was it for the pleasure of slandering and back- 
biting, nor yet because she was envious. She would 
refuse to believe in the respectability and uprightness 
of people, or even in the wealth they were said to 
have, simply from a prodigious bou r.geois^pud&Jkotn 
a conviction that outside her own family- there- could 
be no good blood, and no integrity; that, with the 
exception of her own people, every one was an up- 
start; that nothing was substantial except what she 
possessed, and that what she had not was not worth 
having. 

" And to think that my wife has tales like that to 

IOI 



Renee Mauperin 



tell about all the people we know!" said M. Mau- 
perin. 

" Come now, papa — shall we have the pretty little 
Remoli girl — shall we?" 

" Ask your mother. Say on, Mme. Mauperin." 

"The Remoli girl? But, my dear, you know — " 

" I know nothing." 

" Oh! do you mean to say that you don't know 
her father's history? A poor Italian stucco worker. 
He came to Paris without a sou and bought a bit 
of ground with a wretched little house at Mont- 
parnasse. I don't know where he got the money 
from to buy it. Well, this land turned out to be 
a regular Montfaucon! He sold thirty thousand 
pounds' worth of his precious stuff — and then he's 
been mixed up with Stock Exchange affairs. Dis- 
gusting! " 

" Oh, well," put in Henri, " I fancy you are 
going out of your way to find folks. Why don't 
you ask Mile. Bourjot? They happen to be at San- 
nois now." 

" Mile. Bourjot? " repeated Mme. Mauperin. 

" Noemi? " said Renee quickly, " I should just 
think I should like to ask her. But this winter I 
thought her so distant with me. She has something 
or other — I don't know " 

" She has, or rather she will have, twelve thousand 
pounds a year," interrupted Denoisel, " and mothers 

102 



Renee Mauperin 



are apt to watch over their daughters when such is 
the case. They will not allow them to get too inti- 
mate with a sister who has a brother. They have 
made her understand this; that's about the long and 
short of it." 

" Then, too, they are so high and mighty, those 
folks are; they might have descended from — And 
yet," continued Mme. Mauperin, breaking off and 
turning to her son, " they have always been very 
pleasant with you, Henri, haven't they? Mme. Bour- 
jot is always very nice to you? " 

" Yes, and she has complained several times of 
your not going to her soirees; she says you don't 
take Renee often enough to see her daughter." 

" Really? " exclaimed Renee, very delighted. 

" My dear," said Mme. Mauperin, " what do you 
think of what Henri says — Mile. Bourjot? " 

" What objection do you want me to make? " 

" Well, then," said Mme. Mauperin, " Henri's 
idea shall be carried out. We'll go on Saturday, shall 
we, my dear? And you'll come with us, Henri? " 

A few hours later every one was in bed with the 
exception of Henri Mauperin. He was walking up 
and down in his room puffing on a cigar that had gone 
out, and every now and then he appeared to be smil- 
ing at his own thoughts. 



103 



XI 

Renee often went during the day to paint in a 
little studio, built out of an old green-house at the 
bottom of the garden. It was very rustic-looking, 
half hidden with verdure and walled with ivy, some- 
thing between an old ruin and a nest. 

On a table covered with an Algerian cloth there 
were, on this particular day in the little studio, a 
Japanese box with a blue design, a lemon, an old red 
almanac with the French coat of arms, and two or 
three other bright-coloured objects grouped together 
as naturally as possible to make a picture, with the 
light from the glass roof falling on them. Seated in 
front of the table, Renee was painting all this with 
brushes as fine as pins on a canvas which already had 
something on the under side. The skirt of her white 
pique dress hung in ample folds on each side of the 
stool on which she was seated. She had gathered a 
white rose as she came through the garden and had 
fastened it in her loosely arranged hair just above her 
ear. Her foot, visible below her dress, in a low shoe 
which showed her white stocking, was resting on the 

104 



Renee Mauperin 



cross-bar of the easel. Denoisel was seated near her, 
watching her work and making a bad sketch of her 
profile in an album he had picked up in the studio. 

" Oh, you do pose well," he remarked, as he 
sharpened his pencil again; " I would just as soon try- 
to catch an omnibus as your expression. You never 
cease. If you always move like that " 

" Ah, now, Denoisel, no nonsense with your por- 
trait. I hope you'll flatter me a little." 

" No more than the sun does. I am as conscien- 
tious as a photograph." 

" Let me look," she said, leaning back towards 
Denoisel and holding her maulstick and palette out 
in front of her. " Oh! I am not beautiful. Truly, 
now," she continued, as she went on with her paint- 
ing, " am I like that? " 

" Something. Come, Renee — honestly now — 
what do you think you are like yourself — beautiful? " 

"No." 

" Pretty? " 

" No— no " 

" Ah, you took the trouble to think the matter 
over this time." 

" Yes, but I said it twice." 

" Good! If you think you are neither beautiful 
nor pretty, you don't fancy either that you are " 

" Ugly? No, that's quite true. It's very difficult 
to explain. Sometimes, now, when I look at myself, 

105 



Renee Mauperin 



I think — how am I to explain? Well, I like my looks; 
it isn't my face, I know, it's just a sort of expression 
I have at such times, a something that is within me 
and which I can feel passing over my features. I 
don't know what it is — happiness, pleasure, a sort of 
emotion or whatever you like to call it. I get mo- 
ments like that when it seems to me as though I am 
taking all my people in finely. All the same, though, 
I should have liked to be beautiful." 

"Really!" 

" It must be very pleasant for one's own sake, it 
seems to me. Now, for instance, I should have liked 
to be tall, with very black hair. It's stupid to be 
almost blonde. It's the same with white skin; I should 
have chosen a skin — well, like Mme. Stavelot, rather 
orange-coloured. I like that, but it's a matter of 
taste. And then I should have enjoyed looking in my 
glass. It's like when I get up in the morning and 
walk about the carpet with bare feet. I should love 
to have feet like a statue I once saw — it's just an 
idea! " 

" If that's how you feel you wouldn't care about 
being beautiful for the sake of other people? " 

" Yes and no. Not for every one — only for those 
I care for. We ought to be ugly for people about 
whom we are indifferent, for all the people we don't 
love — don't you think so? They would have just 
what they deserved then." 

1 06 



Renee Mauperin 



Denoisel began sketching again. 

" How odd it is, your ideal, to wish to be dark! " 
he said, after a moment's silence. 

" What should you like to be? " 

" If I were a woman? I should like to be small 
and neither very fair nor very dark " 

"Auburn then?" 

" And plump — Oh, as plump as a quail." 

" Plump? Ah, I can breathe again. Just for a 
moment I was afraid of a declaration — If the light 
had not shown up your hair I should have forgotten 
you were forty." 

" Oh, you don't make me out any older than I 
am, Renee; that is exactly my age. But do you know 
what yours is for me? " 

" No " 

" Twelve — and you will always be that age to 
me." 

" Thanks — I am very glad," said Renee. " If 
that's it I shall always be able to tell you .all the 
nonsense that comes into my head. Denoisel," she 
continued, after a short silence, " have you ever been 
in love? " She had drawn back slightly from her 
canvas and was looking at it sideways, her head lean- 
ing over her shoulder to see the effect of the colour 
she had just put on. 

" Oh, well! that's a good start," answered Denoi- 
sel. " What a question! " 

107 



Renee Mauperin 



" What's the matter with my question? I'm ask- 
ing you that just as I might ask you anything else. 
I don't see anything in it. Would there be any 
harm in asking such, a thing in society? Come now, 
Denoisel! you say I am twelve years old and I agree 
to be twelve; but I'm twenty all the same. I'm a 
young person, that's true, but if you imagine that 
young persons of my age have never read any novels 
nor sung any love-songs — why, it's all humbug — it's 
just posing as sweet innocents. After all, just as you 
like. If you think I am not old enough I'll take back 
my question. I thought we were to consider ourselves 
men when we talked about things together." 

" Well, since you want to know, yes — I have been 
in love." 

" Ah! And what effect did it have on you — being 
in love? " 

" You have only to read over again the novels you 
have read, my dear, and you will find the effect de- 
scribed on every page." 

" There, now, that's just what puzzles me; all the 
books one reads are full of love — there's nothing but 
that! And then in real life one sees nothing of it — 
at least I don't see anything of it; on the contrary, 
I see every one doing without it, and quite easily, 
too. Sometimes I wonder whether it is not just in- 
vented for books, whether it is not all imagined by 
authors — really." 

108 



Renee Mauperin 



Denoisel laughed at the young girl's words. 

" Tell me, Renee," he said, " since we are men for 
the time being, as you just said and as we talk to 
each other of what we feel, quite frankly like two old 
friends, I should like to ask you in my turn whether 
you have ever — well, not been in love with any one, 
but whether you have ever cared for any one? " 

" No, never," answered Renee, after a moment's 
reflection, " but then I am not a fair example. I fancy 
that such things happen to people who have an empty 
heart, no one to think about; people who are not 
taken up, absorbed, possessed and, as it were, pro- 
tected by one of those affections which take hold of 
you wholly and entirely — the affection one has for 
one's father, for instance." 

Denoisel did not answer. 

' You don't believe that that does preserve you? " 
said Renee. " Well, but I can assure you I have 
tried in vain to remember. Oh, I'm examining my 
conscience thoroughly, I promise you. Well, from 
my very childhood, I cannot remember anything — 
no, nothing at all. And yet some of my little friends, 
who were no older than I was, would kiss the inside 
of the caps of the little boys who used to play with 
us; and they would collect the peach-stones from the 
plates the little boys had used and put them into a 
box and then take the box to bed with them. Yes, 
I remember all that. Noemi, for instance, Mile. Bour- 

109 



Renee Mauperin 

jot, was very great at all that. But as for me, I 
simply went on with my games." 

" And later on when you were no longer a child? " 

"Later on? I have always been a child as re- 
gards all that. No, there is nothing at all — I cannot 
remember a single impression. I mean — well, I'm 
going to be quite frank with you — I had just a slight, 
a very slight commencement of what you were talk- 
ing about — just a sensation of that feeling that I rec- 
ognised later on in novels — and can you guess for 
whom? " 

" No." 

" For you. Oh, it was only for an instant. I 
soon liked you in quite a different way — and better, 
too. I respected you and was grateful to you. I 
liked you for correcting my faults as a spoiled child, 
for enlarging my mind, for teaching me to appre- 
ciate all that is beautiful, elevated and noble; and 
all, too, in a joking way by making fun of every- 
5 thing that is ugly and worthless and of everything 
that is dull or mean and cowardly. You taught me 
how to play ball and how to endure being bored 
to death with imbeciles. I have to thank you for 
much of what I think about, for much of what I am 
and for a little of any good there is in me. I wanted 
to pay my debt with a true and lasting friendship, and 
by giving you cordially, as a comrade, some of the 
affection I have for father." 

no 



Renee Mauperin 



As Renee said these last words she raised her 
voice slightly and spoke in a graver tone. 

" What in the world is that? " exclaimed M. Mau- 
perin, who had just entered and had caught sight of 
Denoisel's sketch. " Is that intended for my daugh- 
ter! Why, it's a frightful libel," and M. Mauperin 
picked up the album and began to tear the page up. 

" Oh, papa! " exclaimed Renee, " and I wanted it 
— for a keepsake! " 



in 



XII 

A light carriage, drawn by one horse, was con- 
veying the Mauperin family along the Sannois road. 
Renee had taken the reins and the whip from her 
brother, who was seated at her side smoking. Ani- 
mated by the drive, the air, and the movement, M. 
Mauperin was joking about the people they met and 
bowing gaily to any acquaintances they passed. 
Mme. Mauperin was silent and absorbed. She was 
buried in herself, thinking out and preparing her amia- 
bility for the approaching visit. 

" Why, mamma," remarked Renee, " you don't 
say a word. Are you not well? " 

" Oh, yes, very well, quite well," answered Mme. 
Mauperin; "but the fact is I'm worrying rather 
about this visit — and if it had not been for Henri — 
There's something so stiff and cold about Mme. Bour- 
jot — they are all so high and mighty. Oh, it isn't 
that they impress me at all — their money indeed! I 
know too well where they had it from. They made 
their money from some invention they bought from 
an unfortunate working-man for a mere nothing — 
a few coppers." 

112 



Renee Mauperin 

" Come, come, Mme. Mauperin," put in her hus- 
band, " they must have bought more than " 

" Well, anyhow, I don't feel at ease with these 
people." 

'' You are very foolish to trouble yourself " 

" We can tell them we don't care a hang for their 
fine airs! " said Mile. Mauperin, whipping up the 
horse so that her slang was lost in the sound of the 
animal's gallop. 

There was some reason for Mme. Mauperin's un- 
easiness. Her feeling of constraint was certainly 
justified. Everything in the house to which she was 
going was calculated to intimidate people, to set them 
down, crush them, penetrate and overwhelm them 
with a sense of their own inferiority. There was an 
ostentatious and studied show of money, a clever dis- 
play of wealth. Opulence aimed at the humiliation 
of less fortunate beings, by all possible means of in- 
timidation, by outrageous or refined forms of luxury, 
by the height of the ceilings, by the impertinent airs 
of the lackeys, by the footman with his silver chain, 
stationed in the entrance-hall, by the silver plate on 
which everything was served, by all kinds of princely 
ways and customs, such as the strict observance of 
evening dress, even when mother and daughter were 
dining alone, by an etiquette as rigid as that of a small 
German court. The master and mistress were in har- 
8 113 



Renee Mauperin 



mony with and maintained the style of their house. 
The spirit of their home and life was as it were incar- 
nate in them. 

The man, with all that he had copied from the 
English gentry, his manners, his dress, his curled 
whiskers, his outward distinction; the woman, with 
her grand manners, her supreme elegance, all the 
stiffness and formality of the upper middle class, rep- 
resented admirably the pride of money. Their dis- 
dainful politeness, their haughty amiability, seemed to 
come down to people. There was a kind of insolence 
which was visible in their tastes even. M. Bourjot 
had neither any pictures nor any objects of art; his 
collection was a collection of precious stones, among 
which he pointed out a ruby worth a thousand pounds, 
one of the finest in Europe. 

People had overlooked all this display of wealth, 
and the Bourjot's salon was now very much in vogue 
and conspicuous on account of its pronounced tenden- 
cies in favour of the Opposition party. It had become, 
in fact, one of the three or four important salons of 
Paris. It had been peopled after two or three winters 
which Mme. Bourjot had spent in Nice under pretext 
of benefitting her health. She had converted her 
house there into a kind of hotel on the road to Italy, 
open to all who passed by provided they were great, 
wealthy, celebrated, or that they had a name. At 
her musical evenings, when Mme. Bourjot gave 

114 



Renee Mauperin 

every one an opportunity for admiring her beautiful 
voice and her great musical talent, the celebrities of 
Europe and Parisians of repute met in her drawing- 
room. Scientists, great philosophers and aesthetes 
mingled with politicians. The latter were represented 
by a compact group of Orleanists and a band of Lib- 
erals not pledged to any party, in whose ranks Henri 
Mauperin had figured most assiduously for the past 
year. A few Legitimists whom the husband brought 
to his wife's salon were also to be seen, M. Bourjot 
himself being a Legitimist. 

Under the Restoration he had been a Carbonaro. 
He was the son of a draper, and his birth and name 
of Bourjot had from his earliest childhood exasperated 
him against the nobility, grand houses, and the Bour- 
bons. He had been in various conspiracies, and had 
met with M. Mauperin at Carbonari reunions. He 
hjad figured in all the tumults, and had been fond of 
quoting Berville, Saint-Just, and Dupin the elder. 
After 1830 he had calmed down and had contented 
himself with sulking with royalty for having cheated 
him of his republic. He read the National, pitied the 
people of all lands, despised the Chambers, railed at 
M. Guizot, and was eloquent about the Pritchard 
affair. 

The events of 1848 came upon him suddenly, and 
the landowner then woke up alarmed and rose erect 
in the person of the Carbonaro of the Restoration, the 

ii5 



Renee Mauperin 

Liberal of Louis Philippe's reign. The fall in stocks, 
the unproductiveness of houses, socialism, the pro- 
posed taxes, the dangers to which State creditors were 
exposed, the eventful days of June, and indeed every- 
thing which is calculated to strike terror to the heart 
of a moneyed man during a revolution, disturbed M. 
Bourjot's equanimity, and at the same time enlight- 
ened him. His ideas suddenly underwent a change, 
and his political conscience veered completely round. 
He hastened to adopt the doctrines of order, and 
turned to the Church as he might have done to the 
police authorities, to the Divine right as the supreme 
power and a providential security for his bills. 

Unfortunately, in M. Bourjot's brusque but sincere 
conversion, his education, his youth, his past, his 
whole life rose in revolt. He had returned to the 
Bourbons, but he had not been able to come back 
to Jesus Christ, and, old man as he now was, he would 
make all kinds of slips and give utterance to the attacks 
and refrains to which he had been accustomed. One 
felt, the nearer one came to him, that he was still quite 
a Voltairean on certain points, and Beranger was con- 
stantly taking the place of de Maistre with him. 

" Give the reins to your brother, Renee," said 
Mme. Mauperin. " I shouldn't like them to see you 
driving.' ' 

They were in front of a magnificent large gate- 
116 



Renee Mauperin 

way, opposite which were two lamps that were al- 
ways lighted and left burning all night. The carriage 
turned up a drive, covered with red gravel and planted 
on each side with huge clumps of rhododendrons, and 
drew up before a flight of stone steps. Two footmen 
threw open the glass doors leading into a hall paved 
with marble and with high windows nearly hidden 
by the verdure of a wide screen of exotic shrubs. 

The Mauperins were then introduced into a draw- 
ing-room, the walls of which were covered with crim- 
son silk. A portrait of Mme. Bourjot in evening 
dress, signed by Ingres, was the only picture in the 
room. Through the open windows could be seen a 
pool of water, and near it a stork, the only creature 
that M. Bourjot would tolerate in his park, and that 
on account of its heraldic form. 

When the Mauperins entered the large drawing- 
room, Mme. Bourjot, seated by herself on the divan, 
was listening to her daughter's governess who was 
reading aloud. M. Bourjot was leaning against the 
chimney-piece playing with his watch-chain. Mile. 
Bourjot, near her governess, was working at some 
tapestry on a frame. 

Mme. Bourjot, with her large, rather hard blue 
eyes, her arched eye-brows, and the lines of her eye- 
lids, her haughty and pronounced nose, the super- 
cilious prominence of the lower part of the face, 
and her imperious grace, reminded one of Georges, 

117 



Renee Mauperin 



when young, in the role of Agrippina. Mile. Bourjot 
had strongly marked brown eye-brows. Between her 
long, curly lashes could be seen two blue eyes with 
an intense, profound, dreamy expression in them. A 
slight down almost white could be seen when the light 
was full on her, just above her lip at the two corners. 
The governess was one of those retiring creatures, 
one of those elderly women who have been knocked 
about and worn out in the battle of life, outwardly and 
inwardly, and who finally have no more effigy left than 
an old copper coin. 

"Why, this is really charming!" said Mme. 
Bourjot, getting up and advancing as far as a line of 
the polished floor in the centre of the room. " What 
kind neighbours — and what a delightful surprise! It 
seems an age since I had the pleasure of seeing you, 
dear madame, and if it were not for your son, who 
is good enough not to forsake us, and who comes to 
my Monday Evenings, we should not have known 
what had become of you — of this charming girl — and 
her mamma " 

As she spoke Mme. Bourjot shook hands with 
Henri. 

" Oh! you are very kind," began Mme. Mauperin, 
taking a seat at some distance from Mme. Bourjot. 

" But please come over here," said Mme. Bourjot, 
making room at her side. 

" We have postponed our visit from day to day," 
uS 



Renee Mauperin 



continued Mme. Mauperin, " as we wanted to come 
together." 

" Oh! well, it's very bad of you," continued Mme. 
Bourjot. "We are not a hundred miles away; and 
it is cruel to keep these two children apart, when they 
grew up together. Why, how's this, they haven't 
kissed each other yet? " 

Noemi, who was still standing, presented her 
cheek coldly to Renee, who kissed her as eagerly 
as a child bites into fruit. 

" What a long time ago it seems," observed Mme. 
Bourjot to Mme. Mauperin, as she looked at the two 
girls, " since we used to take them to the Rue de la 
Chaussee d'Antin to those lectures, that bored us as 
much as they did the poor children. I can see them 
now, playing together. Yours was just like quick- 
silver, a regular little turk, and mine — Oh, they were 
like night and day! But yours always led mine on. 
Oh, dear, what a rage they had at one time for cha- 
rades — do you remember? They used to carry off all 
the towels in the house to dress up with." 

" Oh, yes," exclaimed Renee, laughing and turn- 
ing to Noemi, " our finest one was when we did Mara- 
bout; with Marat in a bath that was too hot, calling 
out, ' Je bons, je bons! ' Do you remember? " 

" Yes, indeed," answered Noemi, trying to keep 
back a smile, " but it was your idea." 

" I am so glad, madame, to find you quite inclined 
"9 



Renee Mauperin 

beforehand for what I wanted to ask you — for my 
visit is a selfish one. It was chiefly with the idea of 
letting our daughters see something of each other 
that I came. Renee wants to get up a play, and she 
naturally thought of her old school-friend. If you 
would allow your daughter to take part in a piece 
with my daughter — it would be just a little family 
affair — quite informal." 

As Mme. Mauperin made this request, Noemi, 
who had been talking to Renee and had put her hand 
in her friend's, drew it away again abruptly. 

" Thank you so much for the idea," answered 
Mme. Bourjot, " thanks, too, to Renee. You could 
not have asked me anything that would have suited 
me better and given me so much pleasure. I think it 
would be very good for Noemi — the poor child is so 
shy that I am in despair! It would make her talk and 
come out of herself. For her mind, too, it would be 
an excellent stimulant " 

"Oh! but, mother, you know very well — why, 
I've no memory. And then, too — why, the very idea 
of acting frightens me. Oh, no — I can't act " 

Mme. Bourjot glanced coldly at her daughter. 

" But, mother, if I could — No, I should spoil 
the whole play, I'm sure." 

" You will act — I wish you to do so." 

Noemi looked down, and Mme. Mauperin, slight- 
ly embarrassed and by way of changing the subject, 

120 



Renee Mauperin 



glanced at a Review that was lying open on a work- 
table at her side. 

" Ah! " said Mme. Bourjot, turning to her again, 
" you've found something you know there — that is 
your son's last article. And when do you intend hav- 
ing this play? " 

" Oh, but I should be so sorry to be the cause — 
to oblige your daughter " 

"Oh! don't mention it. My daughter is always 
afraid of undertaking anything." 

■ ' Well, but if Noemi really dislikes it," put in M. 
Bourjot, who had been talking to M. Mauperin and 
Henri on the other side of the room. 

" On the contrary she will be grateful to you," 
said Mme. Bourjot, addressing Mme. Mauperin with- 
out answering M. Bourjot. " We are always obliged 
to insist on her doing anything for her own enjoy- 
ment. Well, when is this play? " 

" Renee, when do you think? " asked Mme. 
Mauperin. 

" Why, I should think about — well, we should 
want a month for the rehearsals, with two a week. 
We could fix the days and the time that would suit 
Noemi." 

Renee turned towards Noemi, who remained 
silent. 

" Very well, then," said Mme. Bourjot, " let us 
say Monday and Friday at two o'clock, if that will 

121 



Renee Mauperin 



suit you — shall we? " And turning to the governess 
she continued: " Mile. Gogois, you will accompany 
Noemi. M. Bourjot — you hear — will you give orders 
for the horses and carriage and the footman to take 
them to Briche? You can keep Terror for me, and 
Jean. There, that's all settled. Now, then, you will 
stay and dine with us, won't you? " 

" Oh! we should like to very much; but it is quite 
impossible. We have some people coming to us to- 
day," answered Mme. Mauperin. 

" Oh, dear, how tiresome of them to come to-day! 
But I don't think you have seen my husband's new 
conservatories. I'll make you a bouquet, Renee. We 
have a flower — there are only two of them anywhere, 
and the other is at Ferrieres — it's a — it's very ugly 
anyhow — this way." 

" Suppose we were to go in here," said M. 
Bourjot, pointing to the billiard-room, which could 
be seen through the glass door. " M. Henri, we'll 
leave you with the ladies. We can smoke here," 
added M. Bourjot, offering a cabanas to M. Mauperin. 
" Shall we have cannoning? " 

" Yes," replied M. Mauperin. 

M. Bourjot closed the pockets of the billiard-table. 

" Twenty-four? " 

" Yes, twenty-four." 

" Have you billiards at home, M. Mauperin? " 

" No, I haven't. My son doesn't play." 

122 



Renee Mauperin 

" Are you looking for the chalk? " 

" Thanks. And as my wife doesn't think it a 
suitable game for girls " 

" It's your turn." 

" Oh! I'm quite out of practice — I always was a 
duffer at it though." 

" Well, but you are not giving me the game at 
all. There, it's all up with my play — I was used to 
that cue," and M. Bourjot gave vent to his feelings 
in an oath. " These rascals of workmen — they 
haven't any conscience at all. There's no getting 
anything well made in these days. Well, you are 
scoring: three, I'll mark it. The fact is we are at 
their service. The other day, now, I wanted some 
chandeliers put up. Well, would you believe it, M. 
Mauperin, I couldn't get a man? It was a holiday — I 
forget what holiday it was — and they would not come 
— they are the lords of creation, nowadays. Do you 
imagine that they ever bring us anything of what they 
shoot or fish? Oh, no, when they get anything dainty 
they eat it themselves. I know what it is in Paris 
— four? Oh, come now! Every penny they earn is 
spent at the wine-shop. On Sundays they spend at 
least a sovereign. The locksmith here has a Lefau- 
cheux gun and takes out a shooting license. Ah, two 
for me at last! And the money they ask now for 
their work! Why, they want four shillings a day for 
mowing! I have vineyards in Burgundy, and they 

123 



Renee Mauperin 



proposed to see to them for me for three years, and 
then the third year they would be their own. This 
is what we are coming to! Luckily for me I'm an 
old man, so that it won't be in my time; but in a hun- 
dred years from now there will be no such thing as 
being waited on — there'll be no servants. I often say 
to my wife and daughter: ' You'll see — the day will 
come when you will have to make your own beds. 
Five? — six? — you do know how to play. The Revo- 
lution has done for us, you know." And M. Bourjot 
began to hum: 

" ' Et zonzon, zonzon, zonzon, 
Zonzon, zonzon ' " 

" These were not exactly your ideas some thirty 
years ago, when we met for the first time; do you 
remember? " said M. Mauperin with a smile. 

" That's true. I had some fine ideas in those days 
— too fine! " replied M. Bourjot, resting his left hand 
on his cue. " Ah, we were young — I should just 
think I do remember. It was at Lallemand's funeral. 
— By Jove! that was the best blow I ever gave in my 
life — a regular knock-you-down. I can see the nails 
in that police inspector's boots now, when I had 
landed him on the ground so that I could cross the 
boulevards. At the corner of the Rue Poissonniere 
I came upon a patrol — they set about me with a 
vengeance. I was with Caminade — you knew Cami- 
nade, didn't you? He was a lively one. He was 

124 



Renee Mauperin 

the man who used to go and smoke his pipe at the 
mission service belonging to the Church of the 
Petits-Peres. He went with his meerschaum pipe 
that cost nearly sixty pounds, and he took a girl 
from the Palais-Royal. He was lucky, for he man- 
aged to escape, but they took me to the police sta- 
tion, belabouring me with the butt-end of their guns. 
Fortunately Dulaurens caught sight of me " 

"Ah — Dulaurens!" said M. Mauperin. "We 
were in the same Carbonari society. He had a shawl 
shop, it seems to me." 

" Yes, and do you know what became of him? " 

" No. I lost sight of him." 

" Well, one fine day — it was after all this business 
— his partner went off to Belgium, taking with him 
eight thousand pounds. They put the police on his 
track, but they could hear nothing of him. Our friend 
Dulaurens goes into a church and makes a vow to 
get converted if he finds his money again. They 
find his money for him and now his piety is simply 
sickening. I never see him now; but in the old 
days he was a lively one, I can tell you. Well, when 
I saw him I gave him a look and he understood. 
You see, I had twenty-five guns in my house and 
five hundred cartridges. When the police went there 
to search he had cleared them away. All the same I 
was kept three months shut up in the new building, 
and two or three times was fetched up in the night 

125 



Renee Mauperin 

to be cross-examined, and I always went with a vague 
idea in my mind that I was going to be shot. You've 
gone through it all, and you know what it is. — And 
all that was for the sake of Socialism! And yet I 
heard a few words that ought to have enlightened 
me. When I was free again one of my prison friends 
came to see me at Sedan. ' Why, what's this,' he 
said, ' that I am told at the hotel? It seems that 
your father has land and money, and yet you have 
joined us! Why, I thought you hadn't anything!' 
Just fancy now, M. Mauperin — and when I think 
that even that did not open my eyes! You see I 
was convinced in those days that all those with whom 
I was in league wanted simply what I wanted: laws 
for rich and poor alike, the abolition of privileges, 
the end of the Revolution of '89 against the nobility 
— I thought we should stop there — eleven? Did I 
mark your last? I don't think I did — let us say 
twelve. But, good heavens! when I saw my re- 
public I was disgusted with it, when I heard two 
men, who had just come down from the barricades 
in February, say, ' We ought not to have left them 
until we had made sure of two hundred a year! ' And 
then the system of taxes according to the income; it's 
an iniquity — the hypocrisy of communism. But with 
taxes regulated by the income," continued M. Bour- 
jot, eloquently breaking of! in the midst of his own 
phrase, " I challenge them to find any one who will 

126 



Renee Mauperin 



care to take the trouble of making a large fortune — 
thirteen, fourteen, fifteen — very good! Oh, you are 
too strong a player. All that has made me turn round 
— you understand? " 

" Perfectly," replied M. Mauperin. 

"Where's my ball — there? Yes, it has made 
me turn completely round; it has positively made 
a Legitimist of me. There — a bad cue again! 
But " 

"But what?" 

"Well, there is one thing — Oh, on that subject, 
now, I have the same opinions still. I don't mind 
telling you. Anything approaching a parson — eight- 
een? — Oh, come, I'm done for! We invite the one 
here in this place — he's a very decent fellow; but as 
to priests — when you've known one as I have, who 
broke his leg getting over the college wall at night 
— they are a pack of Jesuits, you know, M. Mau- 
perin! 

" ' Hommes noirs, d'ou sortez-vous ? 
Nous sortons de dessous, terre.' " 

"Ah, that's my man! The god of simple folks! 

" ' Mes amis, parlons plus bas ; 
Je vois Judas, je vois Judas ! ' " 

" Twenty-one ! You've only three more. Now, 
at the place where my iron-works are, there's a 
bishop who is very easy-going. Well, all the big- 
ots detest him. Now, if he pretended to be a bigot, 

127 



* 



Renee Mauperin 



if he were a hypocrite and spent all his time at 
church " 

" I never saw Mme. Bourjot so amiable," re- 
marked Mme. Mauperin, when she and her family 
were all back in the carriage. 

" An odd chap, that Bourjot," observed M. Mau- 
perin. " It isn't much good having a billiard-table 
of his own either — I could have given him a start 
of twelve." 

" I think Noemi is very strange," said Renee. 
" Did you see, Henri, how she wanted to get out 
of acting? " 

Henri did not answer. 



128 



XIII 

Noemi had just entered Mme. Mauperin's draw- 
ing-room followed by her governess. She looked 
uncomfortable and ill at ease, almost shy, in fact, but 
on glancing round she appeared to be somewhat re- 
assured. She advanced to speak to Mme. Mauperin, 
who kissed her. Renee then embraced her, and, jok- 
ing and laughing all the time, proceeded to take off 
her friend's cape and hat. 

" Ah, I'm forgetting," she exclaimed, turning the 
dainty white hat trimmed with pink flowers round 
on her hand, " let me introduce M. Denoisel again. 
You have met him before in the old days — that 
sounds as though we were quite aged, doesn't it? — 
and he is our theatrical manager, our professor of 
elocution, our prompter — scene shifter — everything." 

" I have not forgotten how kind M. Denoisel 
used to be to me when I was a little girl," and Noemi, 
flushing with emotion as her thoughts went back to 
her childhood, held out her hand somewhat awk- 
wardly and with such timidity that her fingers all 
clung together. 

9 129 



Renee Mauperin 



"Oh, but what a pretty costume! " continued 
Renee, walking round her. " You look sweet," and 
then patting her own taffeta dress, which was rather 
the worse for wear, she held out her skirt and made 
a low reverence. " You'll make a rather pretty Ma- 
thilde — I shall be jealous, you know. — But look, 
mamma," she continued, drawing herself up to her 
full height. " I told you so — she makes me quite 
small. — Now, then — you see you are much taller than 
I am." As she spoke she placed herself side by side 
with Noemi and, putting her arm round her waist, led 
her to the glass and put her shoulder against her 
friend's. "There, now! " she exclaimed. 

The governess was keeping in the background at 
the other end of the salon. She was looking at some 
pictures in a book that she had only dared to half 
open. 

" Come, my dears, shall we begin to read the 
play? " said Mme. Mauperin. " It's no use waiting 
for Henri; he will only come to the last rehearsals 
when the actresses are well on." 

" Oh, just now, mamma, let us talk first. Come 
and sit here, Noemi. There — we have a lot of little 
secrets, so many things that have happened since we 
last met to tell each other about — it is ages ago." 

And Renee began prattling and chirping away 
with Noemi. Their conversation sounded like the 
fresh, clear, never-ending babbling of a brook, break- 

130 



Renee Mauperin 

ing off now and again in a peal of laughter and dying 
away in a whisper. Noemi, who was very guarded 
at first, soon gave herself up to the delight of confid- 
ing in her friend and of listening to this voice which 
brought back so many memories of the past. They 
asked each other, as one does after a long absence, 
about all that had happened and what they had each 
been doing. At the end of half an hour, to judge by 
their conversation, one would have said they were two 
young women who had suddenly become children 
again together. 

" I go in for painting,'' said Renee, " what do you 
do? You used to have a beautiful voice." 

" Oh, don't mention that," said Noemi. " They 
make me sing. Mamma insists on my singing at her 
big parties — and you've no idea how dreadful it is. 
When I see every one looking at me, a shiver runs 
through me. Oh, I'm so frightened — the first few 
times I burst out crying " 

" Well, we'll have a little refreshment now. I've 
saved a green apple for you that I was going to eat 
myself. I hope you still like green apples? " 

" No, thanks, Renee dear, I'm not hungry, really." 

" I say, Denoisel, what can you see that is so inter- 
esting — through that window? " 

Denoisel was watching the Bourjot's footman in 
the garden. He had seen him dust the bench with 
a fine cambric handkerchief, spread the handkerchief 

131 



Renee Mauperin 



over the green laths, sit down on it in a gingerly 
way in his red velvet breeches, cross his legs, take a 
cigar out of his pocket and light it. He was now 
looking at this man as he sat there smoking in an 
insolent, majestic way, glancing round at this small 
estate with the supercilious expression of a servant 
whose master lives in a mansion and owns a park. 

" Why, nothing at all," said Denoisel, coming 
away from the window; " I was afraid of intrud- 
ing." 

" We have told each other all our secrets now; so 
you can come and talk to us." 

" You know what time it is, Renee? " put in Mme. 
Mauperin. " If you want to begin the rehearsal 
to-day " 

" Oh, mamma, please — it's so warm to-day — and 
then, too, it's Friday." 

"And the year began on a 13th," remarked 
Denoisel gravely. 

"Ah!" said Noemi, looking at him with her 
trustful eyes. 

" Don't listen to him — he's taking you in. He 
plays jokes of that kind on you all day long — De- 
noisel does. We'll rehearse next time you come, 
shall we? — there's plenty of time." 

" As you like," answered Noemi. 

" Very well, then; we'll take a holiday. Denoisel, 
be funny — at once. And if you are very funny — very, 

132 



Renee Mauperin 



very funny — I'll give you a picture — one of my 
own " 

" Another? " 

" Oh, well, you are polite — I work myself to 
death " 

" Mademoiselle," said Denoisel to Noemi, " you 
shall judge of the situation. I have now a picture 
of a mad-apple and a parsnip, and then to hang with 
that a slice of pumpkin and a piece of Brie cheese. 
There's a great deal of feeling, I know, of course, in 
such subjects; but all the same from the look of my 
room any one would take me for a private fruiterer." 

" That's how men are, you see," said Renee gaily 
to Noemi. " They are all ungrateful, my dear — and 
to think that some day we shall have to marry. Do 
you know that we are quite old maids — what do you 
think of that? Twenty years old — oh, how quickly 
time goes, to be sure! We think we shall never be 
eighteen, and then, no sooner are we really eighteen 
than it's all over and we can't stay at that age. Well, 
it can't be helped. Oh, next time you come, bring 
some music with you and we'll play duets. I don't 
know whether I could now." 

" And we shall rehearse — quandf " asked Denoisel. 

"In Normandy!" answered Renee, indulging in 
that kind of joke which for the last few years has 
been in favour with society people, and which had its 
origin in the workshop and the theatre. Noemi 

133 



Renee Mauperin 



looked perplexed, as though she had not caught the 
sense of the word she had just heard. 

" Yes," said Renee, " Caen is in Normandy. Ah, 
you don't go in for word-endings? I used to have a 
mania for them some time ago. I was quite unbeara- 
ble with it — wasn't I, Denoisel? And so you go out 
a great deal. Tell me about your balls." 

Noemi did as she was requested, speaking freely 
and getting gradually more and more animated. She 
smiled as she spoke, and as her restraint wore off her 
movements and gestures were graceful. It seemed 
as if she had expanded under the influence of this air 
of liberty, here with Renee in this gay, cheerful 
drawing-room. 

At four o'clock the governess rose as if moved by 
machinery. 

" It is time we started, mademoiselle," she said. 
" There is a dinner-party, you know, at Sannois, and 
you will want time to dress." 



134 



XIV 

" This time you must not expect to enjoy your- 
self; we are going to rehearse in good earnest," said 
Denoisel. " Mile. Noemi, come and sit down there 
— that's it. We are ready now, are we not? One 
— two — three," he continued, clapping his hands, 
" begin." 

" The fact is — the first scene," said Noemi, hesi- 
tatingly, " I am not quite sure of it — I know the 
other better." 

" The second, then? We'll begin with the sec- 
ond — I'll take Henri's part: ' Good evening, my 
dear ' " 

Denoisel was interrupted by a peal of laughter 
from Renee. 

" Oh, dear! " she said to Noemi, " how funnily you 
are sitting! You look like a piece of sugar held in 
the sugar-tongs." 

" Do I? " said Noemi, quite confused and trying 
to find a better pose. 

" If only you would be kind enough not to inter- 
rupt the actors, Renee," said Denoisel. " ' Good even- 

135 



Renee Mauperin 



ing, my dear/ " he repeated, continuing his role, " ' do 
I disturb you? ' " 

"Oh! and where are the purses?" exclaimed 
Renee. 

" Why, I thought you were to see to them." 

" I? — not at all. You were to see to them. You 
are a nice one to count on for the stage properties! 
I say, Noemi, if you were married, would it ever dawn 
upon you to give your husband a purse? It's rather 
shoppy, isn't it? Why not a smoking-cap, at once? " 

" Are we going to rehearse? " asked Denoisel. 

" Oh, Denoisel, you said that just like a man who 
really wants to go and have a smoke! " 

" I always do want to smoke, Renee," answered 
Denoisel, " and especially when I ought not to." 

" Why, it's quite a vice, then, with you." 

" I should just think it is; and so I keep it." 

" Well, but what pleasure can you find in 
smoking? " 

" The pleasure of a bad habit — that is the ex- 
planation of many passions. ' Good evening, my 
dear, 9 " he repeated, once more going back to M. de 
Chavigny's arrival on the scene, " ' do I disturb you? ' 

" Disturb me, Henri — what a question!" replied 
Noemi. 

And the rehearsal continued. 



136 



XV 

" Three o'clock," said Renee, looking up at the 
time-piece from the little woollen stocking she was 
knitting. " Really, I begin to think Noemi will not 
come to-day. She'll spoil the rehearsal. We shall 
have to fine her." 

" Noemi? " put in Mme. Mauperin, as though she 
had just woke up. " Why, she isn't coming. Oh, I 
never told you! I don't know what's the matter with 
me — I forget everything lately. She told me last 
time that very probably she would not be able to 
come to-day. They are expecting some people — I 
fancy — I forget " 

"Well, that's pleasant! There is nothing more 
tiresome than that — to expect people who don't come 
after all. And this morning when I woke I said to 
myself, ' It's Noemi's day.' I was looking forward 
to having her. Oh, it's quite certain she won't come 
now. It's funny how I miss her now — Noemi, when 
she isn't here — ever since she began to take me on 
again. I miss her just as though she were one of the 
family. I don't think her amusing, she isn't lively, 

137 



Renee Mauperin 

she isn't at all gay, and then as regards intelligence, 
why, she's rather feeble — you can take her in so 
easily. And yet — how is it now? — in spite of all that 
there is a fascination about her. There is something 
so sweet, so very sweet about her, and it seems to 
penetrate you. She calms your nerves, positively, 
and then the effect she has on you — why, she 
seems to warm your heart for you, and only by be- 
ing there, near you. I've known lots of girls who 
had really more in them, but they haven't what 
she has. I've always felt as cold as steel with all of 
them." 

" Oh, well, it's very simple," said Denoisel. " Mile. 
Bourjot is of a very affectionate, loving disposition. 
There is a sort of current of affection between such 
natures and others." 

" When she was quite little, I can remember, she 
was just the same — and so sensitive. How she used 
to cry, and how fond she was of kissing me; it was 
amazing — she did nothing else, in fact. And her face 
tells you just what she is, doesn't it? Her beauty 
seems to be made up of all the affection she feels, 
and of all that she has left of her childhood about her. 
And above all it is her expression. You often feel 
rather wicked and spiteful, but when she looks at you 
with that expression of hers it is as though everything 
of that kind disappears — as though something is melt- 
ing away. Would you believe that I never ventured 

138 



Renee Mauperin 



to play a single trick on her, and yet I was a terrible 
tease in the old days! " 

" Nevertheless, it's very extraordinary to be as 
affectionate as all that," said Mme. Mauperin. 

" Oh, no, it's quite natural," answered Denoisel. 
" Imagine a girl, who is born with the instinct of 
loving, just as we have the instinct of breathing. She 
is repelled by the coldness of a mother, who feels 
herself humiliated by her daughter, and who is 
ashamed of her; she is repelled also by the selfishness 
of a father, who has no other pride, no other love, 
and no other child but his wealth; well, a girl like 
this would be just like Mile. Bourjot, and in return 
for any trifling interest you might take in her, she 
would repay you by the affection and the effusions of 
which you speak. Her heart would simply overflow 
with gratitude and love, and you would see in her 
eyes the expression Renee has noticed, an expression 
which seems to shine out through tears." 



139 



XVI 

The rehearsals had been going on a fortnight, 
when one day Mme. Bourjot herself brought her 
daughter to the Mauperins. After the first greetings 
she expressed her surprise at not seeing the chief 
actor. 

" Oh, Henri has such a wonderful memory," said 
Mme. Mauperin; "he will only need a couple of 
rehearsals." 

" And how is it getting on? " asked Mme. Bour- 
jot. " I must own that I tremble for my poor Noemi. 
Is it going fairly well? I came to-day, in the first 
place, to have the pleasure of seeing you, and then 
I thought I should like to judge for myself " 

" Oh, you can be quite at your ease," said Mme. 
Mauperin. " You will see how perfectly natural your 
daughter is. She is quite charming." 

The actors went to their places and began the 
first scene of The Caprice. 

" Oh, you flattered her," said Mme. Bourjot to 
Mme. Mauperin after the first two or three scenes. 
" My dear child," she continued, turning to her 

140 



Renee Mauperin 



daughter, " you don't act as though you felt it; you 
are merely reciting." 

" Oh, madame," exclaimed Renee, " you will 
frighten all the company. We need plenty of in- 
dulgence." 

" You are not speaking for yourself," answered 
Mme. Bourjot. " If only my poor child acted as 
you do." 

"Well, then," said Denoisel to Mme. Bourjot, 
" let us go on to the sixth scene, mademoiselle. We'll 
hear what they have to say about that, for I think 
you do it very well indeed; and as my vanity as pro- 
fessor is at stake, Mme. Bourjot will perhaps allow 
me " 

" Oh, monsieur," said Mme. Bourjot, " I do not 
think it has anything to do with the professor in this 
case; you are not responsible at all." 

The scene was given and Mme. Bourjot con- 
tinued, "Yes, oh yes, that wasn't bad; that might 
pass. It's a namby-pamby sort of scene, and that 
suits her. Then, too, she does her utmost; there's 
nothing to be said on that score." 

"Oh, you are severe!" exclaimed Mme. Mau- 
perin. 

" You see, I'm her mother," murmured Mme. 
Bourjot, with a kind of sigh. " And then you'll have 
a crowd of people here " 

" Oh, you know one always gets more people 
141 



Renee Mauperin 

than one wants on such occasions," said Mme. Mau- 
perin. " There is always a certain amount of curios- 
ity. I suppose there will be about a hundred and 
fifty people." 

" Suppose I were to make the list, mamma? " 
suggested Renee, who was anxious to spare Noemi 
the rest of the rehearsal, as she saw how ill at ease 
her friend was. " It would be a good way of intro- 
ducing our guests to Mme. Bourjot. You will make 
the acquaintance of our acquaintances, madame." 

" I shall be very pleased," replied Mme. Bourjot. 

" It will be rather a mixed dish, I warn you. It 
always seems to me that the people one visits are 
rather like folks one comes across in a stage-coach." 

" Oh, that's a delightful idea — and so true too," 
said Mme. Bourjot. 

Renee took her seat at the table and began to 
write down with a pencil the names of the people, 
talking herself all the time. 

" First comes the family — we'll leave that. Now, 
then, who is there? Mme. and Mile. Chanut, a girl 
with teeth like the pieces of broken glass people put 
on their walls — you know what I mean. M. and 
Mme. de Belizard — people say that they feed their 
horses with visiting-cards." 

" Renee, Renee, come, what will every one think 
of you? " 

" Oh, my reputation's made. I needn't trouble 
142 



Renee Mauperin 

any more about that. Then, too, if you imagine that 
people don't say quite as much about me as I say " 

" Oh, let her alone, please, let her alone," said 
Mme. Bourjot to Mme. Mauperin, and turning to 
Renee she asked with a smile, " And who comes 
next? " 

" Mme. Jobleau. Ah, she's such a bore with her 
story about her introduction to Louis Philippe at the 
Tuileries. ' Yes, sire; yes, sire; yes, sire; ' that was 
all she found to say. M. Harambourg, who can't 
stand any dust — it makes him faint — every summer 
he leaves his man-servant in Paris to get the dust 
from between the cracks of the floors. Mile, de la 
Boise, surnamed the Grammar Dragoon; she used to 
be a governess, and she will correct you during a 
conversation if you make a slip with the subjunctive 
mood. M. Loriot, President of the Society for the 
Destruction of Vipers. The Cloquemins, father, 
mother, and children, a family — well, like Pan's pipes. 
Ah! to be sure, the Vineux are in Paris; but it's 
no use inviting them; they only go to see people 
who live on the omnibus route. Why, I was for- 
getting the Mechin trio — three sisters — the Three 
Graces of Batignolles. One of them is an idiot, 



Renee stopped short as she saw Noemi's scared 
eyes and horrified expression. She looked like some 
poor, loving creature, who scarcely understood, but 

143 



Renee Mauperin 



who had suddenly been troubled and stirred to the 
depth of her soul by all this backbiting. Getting up 
from her seat Renee ran across and kissed her. 
" Silly girl! " she said gently, " why, these people I 
am talking about are not people that I like." 



144 



XVII 

Henri only came to the last rehearsals. He knew 
the play and was ready with his part in a week. The 
Caprice was a very short piece for the soiree, and it 
was decided to finish up with something comic. Two 
or three short plays given at the Palais Royal were 
tried, but given up as there were not enough actors, 
and finally a very nonsensical thing was chosen that 
was just then having a great run in one of the smaller 
theatres, and which Henri had insisted on in spite 
of Mile. Bourjot's apparently groundless objection 
to it. Considering her usual timidity, every one was 
surprised at her obstinacy on this point; but it seemed, 
since Henri had been there, as if she were not quite 
herself. Renee fancied at times that Noemi was not 
the same with her now, and that her friendship had 
cooled. She was surprised to see a spirit of contra- 
diction in her which she had never known before, and 
she was quite hurt at Noemi's manner to her brother. 
She was very cool with him, and treated him with a 
shade of disdain which bordered on contempt. Henri 
was always polite, attentive, and ready to oblige, but 
w 145 



Renee Mauperin 



nothing more. In all the scenes in which he and 
Noemi acted together he was so reserved, so correct, 
and indeed so circumspect, that Renee, who feared 
that the coldness of his acting would spoil the play, 
joked him about it. 

" Pooh! " he answered, " I'm like the great actors. 
I'm keeping my effects for the first night." 



146 



XVIII 

A small stage had been put up at the end of 
Mme. Mauperin's drawing-room, and a leafy screen, 
made of branches of pine and flowering shrubs, hid 
the footlights from view. Renee, with the help 
of her drawing-master, had painted the drop-scene, 
which looked something like the banks of the Seine. 
On each side of the stage was a hand-painted poster 
which read as follows: 

BRICHE THEATRE 
TO-DAY 

THE CAPRICE 

AND 

PIERROT, BIGAMIST 

The names of the actors were at the end of the 
bill. All the chairs in the house were placed closely 
together in rows in front of the stage, and the ladies, 
in evening dress, were seated, their skirts, their laces, 
the flashing of their diamonds, and their white shoul- 
ders all mingling together. The two doors at the 

147 



Renee Mauperin 



other end of the room leading into the dining-room 
and the small salon had been taken off their hinges, 
and the masculine part of the audience, in white neck- 
ties, were grouped together there and standing on 
tip-toe. 

The curtain rose on the first scene of The Caprice. 
Renee was very lively as Mme. de Lery; Henri, in 
the role of husband, proved himself a talented ama- 
teur actor, as so many young men of a cold tempera- 
ment, and grave society men, often do. Noemi, well 
sustained by Henri, admirably prompted by Denoisel, 
and slightly carried away by seeing the large audience, 
played her touching part as the neglected wife very 
passably. This was a great relief to Mme. Bourjot, 
who was seated in the front row anxiously watching 
her daughter. Her vanity had been alarmed by the 
thought of a fiasco. The curtain fell, and amid the 
applause were heard shouts for "All the actors! " 
Her daughter had not made herself ridiculous, and 
the mother was delighted with this great success and 
gave herself up complacently to listening to that 
Babel of voices, opinions, and criticisms, which at 
amateur dramatic performances succeeds the ap- 
plause and continues it, as it were, in a sort of murmur. 
In the midst of it all she heard vaguely one phrase, 
spoken near her, that came to her distinctly and 
seemed to rise above the general hubbub. 

" Yes, it's his sister, I know," some one was say- 
148 



Renee Mauperin 

ing; " but for the role he takes I don't think he is 
sufficiently in love with her; he is really far too much 
in love with his wife — didn't you notice? " 

The lady who was speaking saw that Mme. Bour- 
jot was listening, and, leaning towards her neighbour, 
whispered something to her. This little incident 
made Mme. Bourjot turn very serious. 

After an interval the curtain was once more raised, 
and Henri Mauperin appeared as Pierrot, but not 
arrayed in the traditional calico blouse and black cap. 
He was an Italian Pierrot, with a straight felt hat, 
and was entirely clothed in satin from his coat to his 
slippers. There was a movement among the ladies, 
which meant that they thought both the man and the 
costume charming, and then the buffoonery began. 

It was the silly story of Pierrot married to one 
woman and wishing to marry another; a farce mingled 
with passion, which had been discovered by a vaude- 
ville-writer, aided by a poet, among the stock-pieces 
of the old Italian theatre. Renee took the part of the 
deserted wife, this time, appearing in various dis- 
guises when her husband was love-making elsewhere. 
Noemi was the woman with whom he was in love, 
and Henri delighted the house in his love scenes with 
her. He acted well, putting plenty of youthful ar- 
dour, enthusiasm, and warmth into his part. In the 
scene where he confessed his love, there was some- 
thing in his voice and expression that seemed like a 

149 



Renee Mauperin 



real declaration, which had escaped him, and which he 
could not keep back. Noemi certainly had made up 
as the prettiest Colombine imaginable. She looked 
perfectly adorable, dressed as a bride in a Louis XVI 
costume copied exactly from the Bride's Minuet, an 
engraving by Debucourt lent by M. Barousse. All 
around Mme. Bourjot it seemed as if every one 
were bewitched, the sympathetic public appeared to 
be helping and encouraging the handsome young 
couple to love each other. The piece continued, and 
every now and then it was as though Henri's eyes 
were seeking, beyond the footlights, the eyes of Mme. 
Bourjot. Meanwhile Renee arrived, disguised as a 
village bailiff: there was only the contract to be signed 
now, and Pierrot, taking the hand of the girl he loved, 
began to speak of all the happiness he should have 
with her. 

The lady who was seated next Mme. Bourjot felt 
her leaning slightly on her shoulder. Henri finished 
his speech, the plot came to the climax, and the piece 
ended. Mme. Bourjot's neighbour suddenly saw 
something sink down at her side; it was Mme. 
Bourjot, who had fainted. 



150 




MME. BOURJOT HAD FAINTED 



rin 

. She loo I 
perfc l a Lor. 

the Bride's Minuet, an 
tt by M. Barousse. All 
•d as if every one 
public appeared 
the handsome young 
e piece coi* 
as though I 
ootlights, tli •• Mine, 

arrived, disguised as a 
ly the contract to be signed 
^nd of the girl he loved, 
happiness he should have 

led next Mme. Bo 
er shoulder. Henri fini 
to the climax, and the pi 

neighbour 

(le; it was Mme. 
Bor 



■CLa.T^\K\ A^W TQ\TOOW AVrtK 



XIX 

" Oh, do go in again, please," said Mme. Bourjot 
to the people who were standing round her in the 
garden, to which she had been carried for air. " It's 
all over; there's nothing the matter with me now; it 
was the heat." She was very pale, but she smiled as 
she spoke. " I shall be quite right again when I have 
had a little more air. M. Henri will perhaps stay 
with me." 

Every one returned to the house, and the sound 
of the footsteps had scarcely died away, .when Mme. 
Bourjot seized Henri's arm in a firm grip with her 
feverish fingers. 

"You love her!" she exclaimed. "You love 
her! " 

" Madame," said Henri. 

" Be quiet; you won't tell me the truth!" she 
exclaimed, pushing his arm away. 

Henri merely bowed without attempting to speak. 

" I know all. I saw everything. Look at me! " 
she went on, and she gazed into his eyes. He kept 
his head bent and was silent. " Say something, any- 

151 



Renee Mauperin 



how — speak. Ah, you can only act comedy with 
her! " 

" The fact is I have nothing to say, Laure," re- 
plied Henri, speaking in his gentlest and clearest 
voice. Mme. Bourjot drew back when he called her 
Laure as if he had touched her. " I have been strug- 
gling against it for the last year, madame," he con- 
tinued. " I will not attempt to make any excuse; but 
everything has drawn me to her. We have known 
each other from childhood, and the fascination has 
increased lately day by day. I am very sorry, madame, 
to have to tell you the truth; but it is quite true that I 
love your daughter." 

" But you never can have talked to her, surely? 
Why, I blush for her when we are out — you surely 
have not even looked at her. What in the world pos- 
sesses you men, tell me! Do you think she is beau- 
tiful? What nonsense! why, I am better looking than 
she is. You are so foolish, all of you. And then, I 
have spoiled you. You'll see whether she will pamper 
your pride, let you revel in your vanity, and flatter 
and help you in your ambitions. Oh, I know you 
thoroughly. Ah, M. Mauperin, all this is only met 
with once in a lifetime. And women of my age — old 
women, you understand — are the only ones who care 
about the future of those they love. You were not my 
lover; you were like a dear son to me! " As she said 
this, Mme. Bourjot's voice changed and she spoke 

152 



Renee Mauperin 



with the deepest feeling. "That's enough, though; 
we won't talk about that," she continued in a different 
tone. " I tell you that you don't love my daughter — 
it is not true — but she is rich " 

"Oh, madame!" 

" Well, there are men like that — I have had them 
pointed out to me. Sometimes it succeeds to begin 
with the mother in order to finish with the dowry. 
And for the sake of a million, you know, one can 
put up with being bored. " 

" Speak more quietly, I beg you — for your own 
sake. They have just opened one of the windows." 

" It's very fine to be so calm and collected, M. 
Mauperin, very fine — very fine indeed," said Mme. 
Bourjot, and her low, hissing voice sounded choked. 

Some clouds that were moving quickly along in 
the sky passed like the wings of night-birds over the 
moon, and Mme. Bourjot gazed blankly into the dark- 
ness in front of her. With her elbows resting on her 
knees and supported by her high heels, she remained 
silent, tapping the gravel path with her satin slippers. 
After a few minutes she sat up, moved her arms 
about in an unconscious way as though she were 
scarcely awake, then quickly, and in a jerky way, she 
put her hand between her dress and waistband, press- 
ing the back of her hand against the ribbon as though 
she were going to burst it. Finally she rose and 
began to walk, followed by Henri. 

153 



Renee Mauperin 



" I count on our never seeing each other again, 
monsieur," she said, without turning round. 

As she passed by the fountain she handed him her 
handkerchief, saying, " Will you dip that in the water 
for me? " 

Henri obeyed, kneeling down on the curbstone. 
He handed her the damp handkerchief, and she 
pressed it to her forehead and her eyes. 

" We will go in now," she said; " give me your 
arm." 

" Oh, madame, how courageous you are! " said 
Mme. Mauperin, advancing to meet Mme. Bourjot 
when she entered the room. " It is not wise of you, 
though, at all. I will have your carriage ordered." 

" No, please don't, thank you," replied Mme. 
Bourjot quickly. " I think I promised you that I 
would sing; I am quite ready now," and she went 
across to the piano, gracious and valiant once more, 
with that heroic smile beneath which society actors 
conceal from the public the tears they are weeping 
within themselves, and the wounds which discharge 
themselves into their hearts. 



154 



XX 

Mme. Bourjot had married in order that two 
important business houses should be united; for the 
sake of amalgamating various interests she had been 
wedded to a man whom she did not know, and at the 
end of a week of married life she had felt all the con- 
tempt that a wife can possibly feel for a husband. It 
was not that she had expected anything very ideal, nor 
that she had looked on marriage as a romantic and 
imaginative girl so often does. She was remarkably 
intelligent herself, and seriously inclined, her mind 
had been formed and nurtured by reading, study, and 
acquirements which were almost more suitable for 
a man. All that she asked from the companion of 
her life was that he should be intellectual and intelli- 
gent, a being in whom she could place all her ambi- 
tions and her pride as a married woman, a man with 
a brilliant future before him, capable of winning for 
himself one of those immense fortunes to which 
money nowadays leads, and who should prove himself 
able to leap over the gaps of modern society to a high 
place in the Ministry, the Public Works, or the 
Exchequer. 

155 



Renee Mauperin 

All her castles in the air crumbled away with this 
husband, whom she found day by day more and more 
hopelessly shallow, more and more incapable, devoid 
of all that should have been in him, and which was 
in her instead, more narrow-minded, more mean and 
petty as time went on, and all this mingled with and 
contradicted by all the violences and weaknesses of a 
childish disposition. 

It was her pride that had preserved Mme. Bourjot 
from adultery, a pride which, it may be said, was aid- 
ed by circumstances. When she was young, Mme. 
Bourjot, who was of a spare build and southern type, 
had features which were too pronounced to be pleas- 
ing or beautiful. When she was about thirty-four 
she began to get rather more plump, and it seemed 
then that another woman had evolved from the one 
she had been. Her features, though still strongly 
pronounced, became softer and more pleasing; the 
hardness of her expression appeared to have melted 
away, and her whole face smiled. It was one of those 
autumn beauties such as age brings to certain women, 
making one wish to have seen them as they were at 
twenty; a beauty which makes one imagine for them 
a youthfulness they never had. As a matter of fact, 
then, so far Mme. Bourjot had not run any great 
danger, nor had she known any very great tempta- 
tions. The society, which on account of her tastes 
she had chosen, her surroundings, the men who fre- 

i 5 6 



Renee Mauperin 

quented her salon and whom she met elsewhere, had 
scarcely made it necessary for her to stand seriously 
on the defensive. They were, for the most part, 
academicians, savants, elderly literary men, and poli- 
ticians, all of them unassuming and calm, men who 
seemed old, some of them from stirring up the past 
and the others the present. Satisfied with very little, 
they were happy with a mere nothing — the presence 
of a woman, a flattering speech, or the expression 
of eyes that were drinking in their words. Accus- 
tomed to their academic adoration, Mme. Bourjot 
had, without much risk, allowed it free scope and 
had treated it with jests like an Egeria: it had been a 
flame which did not scorch, and with which she had 
been able to play. 

But the time of maturity arrived for Mme. Bour- 
jot. A great transformation in her face and figure 
took place. Tormented, as it were, by health which 
was too robust and an excess of vitality, she seemed to 
lose the strength morally which she was gaining phys- 
ically. She had a great admiration for her past, and 
she felt now that she was less strong-minded, and 
that there was less assurance in her pride than 
formerly. 

It was just at this time that Henri Mauperin 
had made his appearance in her drawing-room. He 
seemed to her young, intelligent, serious, and thor- 
ough, equipped for the victories of life with all those 

157 



Renee Mauperin 

dispassionate and unwavering qualities that she had 
dreamed before her marriage of finding in a husband. 
Henri had seized the situation at a glance, and, divin- 
ing his own chances, he made his plans and swooped 
down on this woman as his prey. He began to make 
love to her, and this woman, who had a husband and 
daughter, who had been a faithful wife for twenty 
years, and who held a high position in Parisian 
society, scarcely waited for him to tempt her. She 
yielded to him at their first interview, conducting her- 
self like a mere cocotte. Her love became a mad 
passion with her, as it so frequently does with women 
of her age, and Henri proved himself a genius in the 
art of attaching her to himself and of chaining her, as 
it were, to her sin. He never betrayed himself, and 
never for an instant allowed her to see a sign of the 
weariness, the indifference, or the contempt that a 
man feels after a too easy conquest, or of that sort 
of disgust with which certain situations of a woman 
in love inspire him. He was always affectionate, and 
always appeared to be deeply moved. He had for 
Mme. Bourjot those transports of love and jealousy, 
all those scruples, little attentions, and thoughtful- 
ness which a woman, after a certain age, no longer 
expects from her lover. He treated her as if she 
were a young girl, and begged her to give him a 
ring which she always wore, and which had been 
one of her confirmation presents. He put up with 

158 



Renee Mauperin 



all the childishness and coquetry which was so ridicu- 
lous in the passion of this mother of a family, and 
he encouraged it all without a sign of impatience 
on his face or a shade of mockery in his voice. At 
the same time he made himself entirely master of 
her, accustoming her to be docile and obedient to 
him, revealing to her such passionate love that Mme. 
Bourjot was both grateful to him and proud of her 
victory over this apparently cold and reserved young 
man. When he was thus completely master of her, 
Henri worked her up still more by impressing her 
with the danger of their meetings and the risks there 
were in their liaison, while by all the emotions of a 
criminal passion he excited her imagination to such 
a pitch of fear that her love increased with the very 
thought of all she had to lose. 

She finally reached that stage when she only 
lived through him and for him, by his presence, his 
thoughts, his future, his portrait, all that remained 
to her of him after she had seen him. Before leav- 
ing him she would stroke his hair with her hands 
and then put her gloves on quickly. And all day 
afterward, when she was at home again with her 
husband and her daughter, she would put the palms 
of her hands, which she had not washed since, 
to her face and inhale the perfume of her lover's 
hair. 

This soiree, and this treason and rupture at the 
159 



Renee Mauperin 



end of a year, completely crushed Mme. Bourjot. 
She felt at first as if she had received a blow, and 
her life seemed to be ebbing away through the wound. 
She fancied she was really dying, and there was a 
certain sweetness in this thought. The following day 
she hoped Henri would come. She was vanquished 
and quite prepared to beg his pardon, to tell him that 
she had been in the wrong, to beg him to forgive her, 
to entreat him to be kind to her, and to allow her 
to gather up the crumbs of his love. She waited a 
week, but Henri did not come. She asked him for 
an interview that he might return her letters, and 
he sent them to her. She wrote and begged to see 
him for the last time that she might bid him fare- 
well. Henri did not answer her letter, but, through 
his friends and through the newspaper and society 
gossip, he contrived to let Mme. Bourjot hear the 
rumour of an action that had been taken against 
him for one of his articles on the misery of the poor. 
For a whole week he managed to keep her mind 
occupied with the ideas of police and police courts, 
prison, and all that the dramatic imagination of a 
woman pictures to itself as the consequence of a 
lawsuit. 

When the Attorney-General assured Mme. Bour- 
jot that the action would not be taken, she felt quite 
a coward after all the terror she had gone through, 
and weak and helpless from emotion, she could not 

1 60 



Renee Mauperin 



endure any more, and so wrote in desperation to 
Henri: 

" To-morrow at two o'clock. If you are not 
there I shall wait on the stair-case. I shall sit down 
on one of the stairs till you come." 



161 



XXI 

Henri was ready, and had taken great pains to 
dress for the occasion in an apparently careless style. 
He was wearing one of those morning suits in which 
a young man nearly always looks well. 

At the time appointed in the letter there was a 
ring at the door. Henri opened it and Mme. Bourjot 
entered. She passed by and walked on in front of 
him as though she knew the way, until she reached 
the study. She took a seat on the divan, and neither 
of them spoke a word. There was plenty of room 
by her on the divan, but Henri drew up a smoking- 
chair, which he turned round, and, sitting down astride 
on it, folded his arms over the back. 

Mme. Bourjot lifted her double lace veil and 
turned it back over her hat. Holding her head 
slightly aside, and with one hand pulling the glove 
slowly off the other, she gazed at the things on the 
wall and on the mantel-shelf. She gave a little sigh as 
if she were alone, and then, glancing at Henri, she 
said: 

" There is some of my life here — something of 
J 63 



Renee Mauperin 

me — in all that." She held out her ungloved hand to 
him, and Henri kissed the tips of her fingers re- 
spectfully. 

" Forgive me," she went on, " I did not intend 
speaking of myself; I have not come here for that. 
Oh, you need not be afraid, I am quite sensible to-day, 
I assure you. The first moment — well, the first mo- 
ment was hard! I won't deny that I had to pull 
myself together," she continued, with a tearful smile, 
" but it's all over now. I scarcely suffer any more, 
and I am quite myself again, I assure you. Of course 
everything cannot be forgotten all in a minute, and 
I won't say that you are nothing to me now — for you 
would not believe me. But this I can assure you, 
and you must believe me, Henri, there is no more 
love for you in my heart. I am no longer weak; the 
woman within me is dead — quite dead, and the affec- 
tion I have for you now is quite pure." 

The light seemed to annoy her as she spoke, as 
if it were some one gazing at her. " Will you put the 
blind down, dear? " she said. " The sun — my eyes 
have rather hurt me the last few days." 

While Henri was at the window she arranged her 
hat and let the cloak she was wearing drop from her 
shoulders. When the light was not so strong in the 
room she began again: 

" Yes, Henri, after struggling a long time, and en- 
during such anguish as you will never know, after 

163 



Renee Mauperin 

passing nights such as I hope you may never have, and 
after crying and praying, I have conquered myself. 
I have won the victory, and I can now think of my 
daughter's happiness without being jealous, and of 
yours as the only happiness now left for me on earth." 

" You are an angel, Laure," said Henri, getting 
up and walking up and down the room as though he 
were greatly agitated. " But you must look at things 
as they are. You were quite right the other day 
when you said that we must separate forever — never 
see each other again. The idea of our constantly 
meeting! You know we could not. It would take 
so little to open wounds as slightly closed as ours 
are. Then, too, even if you are sure of yourself, how 
do you know that I am as sure of myself? How can 
I tell — if we were meeting at all times — with such con- 
stant temptation — if I were always near you," he said, 
speaking very tenderly, " why, some day, unexpect- 
edly — how can I tell — and I am an honourable man." 

" No, Henri," she answered, taking his hands in 
hers and drawing him to the seat at her side, " I am 
not afraid of you, and I am not afraid of myself. It 
is all over. How can I make you believe me? And 
you will not refuse me? No, you cannot refuse me 
the. only happiness which remains for me — my only 
happiness. It is all I have left in the world now — it 
is to see you, only to see you — " and throwing her 
arms round Henri's neck she drew him to her closely. 

164 



Renee Mauperin 



" Ah, no, it is quite impossible," said Henri, when 
the embrace had lasted a few seconds. " Don't say 
any more about it," he continued, brusquely, getting 
up as he spoke. 

" I will be brave," said Mme. Bourjot very 
seriously. 

When they had played out their comedy of renun- 
ciation they both felt more at ease. 

" Now, then, listen to me," began Mme. Bourjot 
once more, " my husband will give you his daughter." 

" How foolish you are, really, Laure." 

" Don't interrupt me — my husband will give you 
his daughter. I fancy he intends asking his son-in- 
law to live in the same house. Of course you would 
be quite free — your suite of rooms, your carriage, 
meals, and everything quite apart — you know what 
our style of living is. Unless M. Bourjot has changed 
his mind, she will have a dowry of forty thousand 
pounds, and unless he should lose his money, which 
I do not think is very probable, you will have, at our 
death, four or five times that amount." 

" And how can you seriously imagine that Mile. 
Bourjot, who has forty thousand pounds, and who 
will have four or five times that much, would mar- 
ry " 

" I am her mother," answered Mme. Bourjot in 
a decisive tone. " And then — don't you love her? 
Why, it would merely be a kind of marriage of ex- 

165 



Renee Mauperin 



pediency," and Mme. Bourjot smiled. " You pro- 
vide her with happiness." 

" But what will the world say? " 

" The world? My dear boy, we should close the 
world's mouth with truffles," and she gave her shoul- 
ders a little shrug. 

" And M. Bourjot? " 

" That's my part. He will like you very much 
before the end of two months. The only thing is, 
as you know, he will want a title; he has always 
intended his daughter to marry a count. All I can 
do is to get him to consent to a name tacked on to 
yours. Nothing is simpler, nowadays, than to get 
permission to add to one's name the name of some 
estate, or forest, or even the name of a meadow, or 
a bit of land of any sort. Didn't I hear some one 
talking to your mother about a farm called Villacourt 
that you have in the Haute-Marne? Mauperin de 
Villacourt; that would do very well. You know, as 
far as I am concerned, how little I care about such 
things." 

" Oh, but it would be so ridiculous, with my prin- 
ciples, and a Liberal, too, bound as I am. And then, 
you know " 

" Oh, you can say it is a whim of your wife's. 
Every one goes about with names like that now; it's 
a sort of cross people have to bear. Shall I say a 
word for you to any one in authority? " 

1 66 



Renee Mauperin 



" Oh, no; no, please don't! I didn't think I had 
said anything which could make you imagine I should 
be inclined to accept. I don't really know, frankly. 
You understand that I should have to think it over, 
I should have to collect myself and consider what 
my duty is; to be more myself, in fact, and less influ- 
enced by you, before I could give you an answer." 

" I shall call on your mother this week," said 
Mme. Bourjot, getting up and pressing his hand. 
" Good-bye," she said sadly; " life is a sacrifice! " 



167 



XXII 

" Renee," said Mme. Mauperin one evening to 
her daughter, " shall we go and see Lord Mansbury's 
collection of pictures to-morrow? It appears that it 
is very curious; people say that one of the pictures 
would fetch four thousand pounds. M. Barousse 
thought it would interest you, and he has sent me 
the catalogue and an invitation. Should you like 
to go? " 

" Rather. I should just think I should like to go," 
replied Renee. 

The following morning she was very much sur- 
prised to see her mother come into the room while 
she was dressing, busy herself with her toilette, and 
insist on her putting on her newest hat. 

" There are always so many people at these ex- 
hibitions," said Mme. Mauperin, arranging the bows 
on the hat, " and you must be dressed as well as 
every one else." 

Although it was a private exhibition there were 
crowds of people in the room on the first floor of 
the Auction Buildings, where Lord Mansbury's col- 

168 



Renee Mauperin 

lection was on view. The fame of the pictures, and 
the scandal of such a sale, which it was said had been 
necessitated by Lord Mansbury's folly in connection 
with a Palais Royal actress, had attracted all the 
habitues of the Hotel Drouot; those people whom 
of late years the fashion for collecting has brought 
there — all that immense crowd of bric-a-brac buyers, 
art worshippers, amateurs of repute, and nearly all the 
idlers of Paris. It had been found necessary to hang 
the three or four valuable pictures for sale in the 
hall out of reach of the crowd. In the room one 
could hear that muffled sound which one always 
hears at wealthy peoples' sales, the murmur of prices 
going up, of whims and fancies, of follies which lead 
on to further follies, of competitions between bank- 
ers, and of all kinds of vanities connected with money 
matters. Bidding, too, could be heard, being quietly 
carried on among the groups. " The foam was ris- 
ing," as the dealers say. 

When they entered the room, Mme. Mauperin 
and her daughter saw Barousse, arm-in-arm with a 
young man of about thirty years of age. The young 
man had large, soft eyes, which would have been 
handsome if they had had more expression in them. 
His figure, which was slightly corpulent, was a little 
puffy, and this gave him a rather common appear- 
ance. 

"At last, ladies!" said Barousse, addressing 
169 



Renee Mauperin 



Mme. Mauperin; "allow me to introduce my 
young friend, M. Lemeunier. He knows the col- 
lection thoroughly, and if you want a guide he will 
take you to the best things. I must ask to be ex- 
cused, as I want to go and push something in No. 3 
room." 

M. Lemeunier took Mme. Mauperin and her 
daughter round the room, stopping at the canvases 
signed by the most celebrated names. He merely 
explained the subjects of the pictures, and did not 
talk art. Renee was grateful to him for this from 
the bottom of her heart, without knowing why. 
When they had seen everything, Mme. Mauperin 
thanked M. Lemeunier, and they bowed and parted 
company. 

Renee wanted to see one of the side-rooms. The 
first thing she caught sight of on entering was M. 
Barousse's back, the back of an amateur in the very 
height of the excitement of the sale. He was seated 
on the nearest chair to the auctioneer, next to a pic- 
ture-dealing woman wearing a cap. He was nudg- 
ing her, knocking her knee, whispering eagerly his 
bid, which he imagined he was concealing from the 
auctioneer and his clerk, from the expert, and from 
all the room. 

" There, come, you have seen enough," said Mme. 
Mauperin, after a short time. " It's your sister's ' At 
Home ' day, and it is not too late. We have not been 

170 



Renee Mauperin 



once this year to it, and she will be delighted to 
see us." 

Renee's sister, Mme. Mauperin's elder daughter, 
Mme. Davarande, was the type par excellence of a so- 
ciety woman. Society filled her whole life and her 
brain. As a child she had dreamed of it; from the 
time she had been confirmed she had longed for it. 
She had married very young, and had accepted the 
first " good-looking and suitable " man who had been 
introduced to her, without any hesitation or trouble , 
and entirely of her own accord. It was not M. Dava- 
rande, but a position she had married. Marriage for 
her meant a carriage and servants in livery, dia- 
monds, invitations, acquaintances, drives in the Bois. 
She had all that, did very well without children, loved 
dress, and was happy. To go to three balls in an 
evening, to leave forty cards before dinner, to run 
about from one reception to another, and to have 
her own " At Home " day — she could not conceive of 
any happiness beyond this. Devoting herself entirely 
to society, Mme. Davarande borrowed everything 
from it herself, its ideas, its opinions, its w 7 ay of 
giving charity, its stock phrases in affairs of the 
heart, and its sentiments. She had the same opin- 
ions as the women whose hair was dressed by the 
famous coiffeur, Laure. She thought exactly what 
it was correct to think, just as she wore exactly what 
it was correct to wear. Everything, from her very 

171 



Renee Mauperin 



gestures to the furniture in her drawing-room, from 
the game she played to the alms she gave away, from 
the newspaper she read to the dish she ordered from 
her cook, aimed at being in good style — good style 
being her law and her religion. She followed the 
fashion of the moment in everything and every- 
where, even to the theatre of the Bouffes Parisiens. 
She had, when driving in the Bois, been told the 
names of certain women of doubtful reputation, and 
could point them out to her friends, and that made 
an effect. She spelt her name with a small " d," an 
apostrophe, and a capital A, and this converted it 
into d'Avarande. Mme. Davarande was pious. It 
seemed to her that God was chic. It would have 
seemed almost as improper to her to have no parish 
as to have no gloves. She had adopted one of those 
churches where grand marriages are celebrated, where 
people with great names are to be met, where the 
chairs have armorial bearings, where the beadle glit- 
ters with gold lace, where the incense is perfumed 
with patchouli, and where the porch after high mass on 
Sundays resembles the corridor of the Opera House 
when a great artiste has been singing. 

She went to hear all the preachers that people 
were supposed to hear. She confessed her sins, not 
in the confessional, but in a community. The name 
and the individuality of the priest played an important 
part so far as she was concerned in the sacraments of 

172 



Renee Mauperin 



the Church: she would not have felt that she was 
really married if any one but the Abbe Blampoix had 
officiated at her wedding, and she would not have 
considered a baptism valid if a ten-pound note had 
not been sent to the cure inside the traditional box 
of sugar-plums. This woman, whose mind was always 
fixed on worldly things, even when at church and 
during the benediction, was naturally, thoroughly, 
and absolutely virtuous, but her virtue was not the 
result of any effort, merit, or even consciousness. In 
the midst of this whirlwind, this artificial air and warm 
atmosphere, exposed to all the opportunities and 
temptations of society life, she had neither the heart 
which a woman must have who is given to dreaming 
nor enough intelligence to be bored by such an ex- 
istence. She had neither the curiosity nor the incli- 
nation which might have led her astray. Hers was 
one of those happy, narrow-minded dispositions 
which have not enough in them to go wrong. She 
had that unassailable virtue, common to many Pa- 
risian women w T ho are not even touched by the temp- 
tations which pass over them: she was virtuous 
just in the same way as marble is cold. Physically, 
even, as it happens sometimes with lymphatic and 
delicate natures, the effect of society life on her had 
been to free her from all other desires by using up 
her strength, her nervous activity, and the movement 
of the little blood she had in her body, in the rushing 

173 



Renee Mauperin 



about on visits and shopping, the effort of making 
herself agreeable, the fatigue of evening parties, re- 
sulting in utter weariness at night, and enervation 
the next day. 

There are society women in Paris who, by the 
amount of vitality and vigour they expend, and by the 
intense application of their energy and grace, remind 
one of circus-riders and tight-rope dancers, whose 
temperament suffers from the fatigue of their ex- 
ercises. 

Mme. Mauperin and her daughter met Mme. 
Davarande in her dining-room, accompanying a 
smooth-faced gentleman with blue spectacles to the 
door. She was extremely amiable to him, and when 
she had seen him out she returned to her mother 
and sister. 

" Excuse my leaving you," she said, as she kissed 
them, " but it was M. Lordonnot, the architect of 
the Sacred Heart Convent. I cultivate him for the 
sake of my collections. Thanks to him I had forty- 
eight pounds you know last time. That's very good: 
Mme. de Berthival has never reached thirty-two 
pounds. I'm so glad to see you; it's very nice of you 
to have come. We'll go into the other room — there's 
no one here to-day. Mme. de Thesigny, Mme. de 
Champromard, and Mme. de Saint-Sauveur, and then 
two young men, young de Lorsac — you know him I 

174 



Renee Mauperin 



think, mamma, and his friend de Maisoncelles? Wait 
a minute," she said to Renee, patting her hair down 
a little, " your hair looks like a little dog's," and then 
advancing and opening the drawing-room door, she 
announced her mother and sister. 

Every one rose, shook hands, or bowed, and then 
sat down again and looked at each other. Mme. 
Davarande's three lady friends were leaning back in 
their easy chairs in that languid attitude due to cush- 
ioned seats. They looked very dainty in their wide 
skirts, their lovely hats, and gloves about large 
enough for the hands of a doll. They were dressed 
perfectly, their gowns had evidently been cut by an 
artiste, their whole toilette with the hundred little 
nothings which set it off, their graceful attitudes, their 
bearing, their gestures, the movement of their bodies, 
the frou-frou of their silk skirts — everything was 
there which goes to make the charm of the Parisian 
woman; and, although they were not beautiful, they 
had discovered the secret of appearing almost pretty, 
with just a smile, a glance, certain little details and 
semblances, flashes of wit, animation, and a smart 
look generally. 

The two friends, Lorsac and Maisoncelles, in the 
prime of their twenty years, with pink-and-white com- 
plexions, brilliant health, beardless faces and curled 
hair, were delighted at being invited to a young mar- 
ried lady's " At Home " day, and were sitting respect- 

175 



Renee Mauperin 



fully on the edge of their chairs: They were young 
men who had been very well brought up. They had 
just left a pension kept by an abbe who gave little par- 
ties every evening, at which his sister presided, and 
which finished up with tea handed round in the bil- 
liard-room. 

" Henriette," said Mme. de Thesigny to Mme. 
Davarande, when the conversation had commenced 
again, " are we going to see Mile, de Bussan's wed- 
ding to-morrow? I hear that every one will be there. 
It's made such a stir, this marriage." 

" Will you call for me, then? What's the bride- 
groom like — does any one know? Do you know him, 
Mme. de Saint-Sauveur? " 

" No, not at all." 

" Is she making a good match? " 

"An awful match!" put in Mme. de Champro- 
mard, " he hasn't anything — six hundred pounds a 
year all told." 

" But," said Mme. Mauperin, " it seems to me, 
madame, that six hundred " 

" Oh, madame," continued Mme. de Champro- 
mard, " why, nowadays, that isn't enough to pay for 
having one's jewellery reset." 

" M. de Lorsac, are you coming to this wed- 
ding? " asked Mme. Davarande. 

" I will come if you wish it." 

"Well then, I do wish it. Will you keep two 
176 



Renee Mauperin 



chairs for us? One spoils one's dress quite enough 
without that. I can wear pearl grey, can't I? " 

" Oh, certainly," answered Mme. de Thesigny, 
" it's a moire antique wedding. M. de Maisoncelles, 
will you keep two chairs for me? Don't forget." 

De Maisoncelles bowed. 

" And if you are very good you shall be my cotil- 
lon partner on Wednesday." 

De Lorsac blushed for de Maisoncelles. 

" You don't go out much, do you, mademoiselle? " 
said Mme. de Sauveur to Renee, who was seated 
next her. 

" No, madame, I don't care about going out," 
answered Mile. Mauperin rather curtly. 

" Julia," said Mme. de Thesigny to Mme. de 
Champromard, " tell us again about your famous 
bride's bed-room — Mme. Davarande wasn't there. 
Just listen, my dear." 

" Oh, it was my sewing-woman who told me. 
Only fancy, the walls are draped with white satin, 
finished with applications of lace, and ruches of sat- 
in to outline the panels. The sheets — I've seen 
the pattern — they are of cambric — spider-web. 
The mattresses are of white satin, caught down 
with knots of pale blue silk that show through 
the sheet. And you will be surprised to hear that 
all that is for a woman who is quite comme il 

faut" 

12 177 



Renee Mauperin 

" Oh, yes," said Mme. de Saint-Sauveur, " that is 
most astonishing, for everything, nowadays, is for the 
other kind of women. What do you think happened 
to me in the country — a most disagreeable affair! 
There is a woman, who is not all she ought to be, 
living near us. We came across her at church, for 
she has sittings there — just fancy! Well, ever since 
she has arrived in our part of the world, everything 
has gone up in price. We positively cannot get a 
sewing-girl now in the house for less than seven- 
pence halfpenny an hour. Money is nothing to 
creatures of that kind, of course. And then every 
one adores her — she is such a schemer. She goes 
to see the peasants when they are ill, she finds situ- 
ations for their children, and she gives them money 
— a sovereign at a time. Before she came we 
used to be able to do things for the poor without 
much expense, but that isn't possible now. It's out- 
rageous! I told the cure so — it really is quite scan- 
dalous! And we owe all this to one of your 
relatives, M. de Lorsac, to your cousin, M. d'Oram- 
beau. My compliments to him when you see 
him." 

The two young men threw themselves back on 
their chairs and laughed heartily, and then both of 
them instinctively bit their canes with delight. 

" Where have you just come from? " Mme. Dava- 
rande asked her mother and sister. 

i 7 8 



Renee Mauperin 



" From the auction-room," answered Mme. Mau- 
perin. " M. Barousse persuaded us to go to an ex- 
hibition of pictures." 

" Lord Mansbury's collection," put in Renee. 

" Ah, we must go to those auction-rooms, Hen- 
riette," said Mme. de Thesigny; " we'll go and rococo- 
ter — it's great fun." 

" Have you seen Petrucci's pictures, my dear? " 
asked Mme. de Saint-Sauveur. 

" Is she selling them? " asked Mme. de The- 
signy. 

" I did so want to go," said Mme. Davarande. 
" If I had only known that you were going " 

" We were all there," interrupted Mme. de Saint- 
Sauveur. " It was so curious. There was a glass- 
case of jewellery, a necklace of black pearls among 
other things — if only you had seen it — three rows. 
There isn't a husband in the world who could give 
you a thing like that; it would take a national sub- 
scription." 

" Shall we not see your husband?" asked Mme. 
Mauperin, turning to Mme. Davarande. 

" Oh, he's never here on my day — my husband — 
thank goodness! " Mme. Davarande looked round 
as she heard some one coming in by the door behind 
her chair. It was M. Barousse, followed by the 
young man who had been with him at the auction- 
room. 

179 



Renee Mauperin 



" Ah, we meet again/' he said to Mme. Mauperin, 
as he put down on a chair the little portfolio which 
never left him. 

Renee smiled and the chattering began again. 

" Have you read that novel — that novel? " 

" The one in the Constitutional? " 

" No." 

" By — I can't think of the name. It's called — 
wait a minute." 

" Every one's talking about it." 

" Do read it." 

" My husband will get it me from his club." 

" Is that play amusing? " 

" I only like dramas." 

" Shall we go? " 

" Let's take a box." 

" Friday? " 

" No, Saturday." 

" Shall we go to supper after? " 

" Yes— agreed." 

" It's at the Provengaux." 

" Will your husband come? " 

" Oh, he does what I want him to do, always." 

They were all talking and answering each other's 
questions without really listening to anything, as 
every one was chattering at the same time. Words, 
questions, and voices were all mingled together in 
the Babel: it was like the chirping of so many birds 

1 80 



Renee Mauperin 



in a cage. The door opened, and a tall, thin woman 
dressed in black, entered. 

" Don't disturb yourselves, any of you; I have 
only just come in as I am passing. I have only one 
minute." 

She bowed to the ladies and took up her position 
in front of the chimney-piece, with her elbow on the 
marble and her hands in her muff. She glanced at 
herself in the glass, and then, lifting her dress skirt, 
held out the thin sole of her dainty little boot to the 
fire. 

" Henriette," she began, " I have come to ask 
you a favour — a great favour. You absolutely must 
undertake the invitations for the ball that the Brod- 
mers are giving — you know, those Americans, who 
have just come; they have a flat in the Rue de la 
Paix, and the rent is sixteen hundred a year." 

" Oh, the Brodmers — yes," put in Mme. de The- 
signy. 

" But, my dear," said Mme. Davarande, " it's a 
very delicate matter — I don't know them. Have you 
any idea what these people are? " 

" Why, they are Americans. They've made their 
fortune out of cotton, candles, indigo, or negroes — or 
— I don't know what; but what in the world does that 
matter to us? Americans, you know, are accepted 
nowadays. As far as I am concerned — with people 
who give balls, there's only one thing I care about, 

181 



Renee Mauperin 

and that is that they shouldn't belong to the police 
and should give good suppers. It's all superb at 
their house, it seems. The wife is astonishing. She 
talks the French of the backwoods; and people say 
she was tattooed when she was a child. That's why 
she can't wear low dresses. It's most amusing, 
and she is so entertaining. They want to get plenty 
of people, you see. You will do it for me, won't 
you? I can assure you that if I were not in mourn- 
ing I should have had great pleasure in putting on 
the invitation cards, ' With the Baronne de Lermont's 
compliments.' And then, too, they are people who 
will do things properly. Oh, as to that I'm con- 
vinced of it. They are sure to make you a pres- 
ent " 

" Oh no, if I undertake the invitations I don't 
want a present for it." 

" How queer you are! Why, that sort of thing's 
done every day — it's the custom. It would be like 
refusing a box of sweets from these gentlemen here 
on New Year's day. And now I must go. I shall 
bring them to see you to-morrow — my savages. 
Good-bye! Oh dear, I'm nearly dead!" and with 
these words she disappeared. 

" Is it really true? " Renee asked her sister. 

" What? " 

" That guests are supplied for balls in this way? " 

" Well, didn't you know that? " 
182 



Renee Mauperin 



" I was in the same state of ignorance," said the 
young man M. Barousse had brought. 

" It's very convenient for foreigners," remarked 
Mme. Davarande. 

" Yes, but it seems to me that it's rather humili- 
ating for Parisians. Don't you think so, mademoi- 
selle? " said the young man, turning to Mile. Mau- 
perin. 

" Oh, it's an accepted thing, anyhow," said Mme. 
Davarande. 



183 



XXIII 

Mme. Bourjot had just arrived with her daughter 
at the Mauperins\ She kissed Renee and sat down 
by Mme. Mauperin on the sofa near the fire. 

" My dears," she said, turning to the two girls, 
who were chattering together on the other side of 
the room, " suppose you were to let your mothers 
have a little talk together. Will you take Noemi out 
in the garden a little, Renee? I give her over 
to you." 

Renee put her arm round Noemi and pulled her 
along with her, skipping as she went. In the hall 
she caught up a Pyrenees hood that was lying on a 
chaif and threw it over her head, put on some little 
overshoes, and ran out into the garden, rushing 
along like a child, and keeping her arm round her 
friend all the time. 

" There's a secret — a secret. Do you know what 
the secret is? " she exclaimed, stopping suddenly 
short and quite out of breath. 

Noemi looked at her with her large, sad eyes and 
did not answer. 

184 



Renee Mauperin 



" You silly girl! " said Renee, kissing her. " I've 
guessed it — I caught a few words — mamma lets every- 
thing out. It's about his lordship, my brother. There 
now! " 

" Let's sit down — shall we? I'm so tired." And 
Noemi took her seat on the garden bench, just where 
her mother had sat on the night of the theatricals. 

" Why, you are crying! What's the matter?" 
exclaimed Renee, sitting down by her. Noemi let 
her head fall on her friend's shoulder and burst into 
tears, that were quite hot as they fell on Renee's 
hand. 

" What is it, tell me — answer me — speak, Noemi 
— come now, Noemi dear! " 

" Oh, you don't know!" answered Noemi, in 
broken words, which seemed to choke her. " I won't 
— no, I cannot tell you — if only you knew. Oh, do 
help me! " and she flung her arms round Renee in de- 
spair. " I love you dearly— you " 

" Come, come, Noemi; I don't understand any- 
thing. Is it this marriage — is it my brother? You 
must answer me — come! " 

"Ah, yes; you are his sister — I had forgotten 
that. Oh, dear, I wish I could die " 

" Die, but why? " 

" Why? Because your brother " 

She stopped short, in horror at the thought of 
uttering the words she was just going to say, and 

185 



Renee Mauperin 



then, suddenly finishing her sentence in a murmur in 
Renee's ear, she hid her face on her friend's shoulder 
to conceal her blushing cheeks and the shame she felt 
in her inmost soul. 

" My brother! You say — no, it's a lie!" ex- 
claimed Renee, pushing her away and springing up 
with a bound in front of her. 

" Should / tell a lie about it? " and Noemi looked 
up sadly at Renee, who read the truth clearly in 
her eyes. 

Renee folded her arms and gazed at her friend. 
She stood there a few minutes deep in thought, erect 
and silent, her whole attitude resolute and energetic. 
She felt within herself the strength of a woman, and 
something of the responsibility of a mother with 
this child. 

" But how can your father — " she began, " my 
brother has no name but ours." 

" He is to take another one." 

" Ah, he is going to give our name up? And 
quite right that he should! " 



1 86 



XXIV 

" Oh, it's you, is it; you are not in bed yet? " 
said Henri to Renee, as she went into his room one 
evening. He was smoking, and it was that blissful 
moment in a man's life when, with slippers on and 
his feet on the marble of the chimney-piece, buried 
in an arm-chair, he gives himself up to day-dreams, 
while puffing up languidly to the ceiling the smoke of 
his last cigar. He was thinking of all that had hap- 
pened during the past few months, and congratulating 
himself on having manoeuvred so well. He was turn- 
ing everything over in his mind: that suggestion about 
the theatricals, which he had thrown out with such 
apparent indifference when they were all sitting in 
the garden; then his absence from the first rehearsals, 
and the coolness with which he had treated Noemi 
in order to reassure her, to take her off her guard, and 
to prevent her refusing point-blank to act. He was 
thinking of that master-stroke, of his love suddenly 
rousing the mother's jealousy in the midst of the 
play, and it had all appeared to be so spontaneous, as 
though the role he was filling had torn from him 

i8 7 



Renee Mauperin 

the secret of his soul. He thought of all that had 
followed: how he had worked that other love up to 
the last extremity of despair, then his behaviour in 
that last interview; all this came back to him, and 
he felt a certain pride in recalling so many circum- 
stances that he had foreseen, planned, and arranged 
beforehand, and which he had so skilfully intro- 
duced into the midst of the love-affairs of a woman 
of forty. 

" No, I am not sleepy to-night," said Renee, 
drawing up a little stool to the fire and sitting 
down. " I feel inclined for a little chat like we used 
to have before you had your flat in Paris, do you 
remember? I got used to cigars, and pipes, and 
everything here. Didn't we gossip when every one 
had gone to bed! What nonsense we have talked by 
this fire! And now, my respected brother is such a 
very serious sort of man." 

" Very serious indeed," put in Henri, smiling. 
" I'm going to be married." 

" Oh," she said, " but you are not married yet. 
Oh, please Henri!" and throwing herself on her knees 
she took his hands in hers. " Come now, for my 
sake. Oh, you won't do it — just for money — I'm 
begging you on my knees! And then, too, it will 
bring bad luck to give up your father's name. It 
has belonged to our family for generations — this 
name, Henri. Think what a man father is. Oh, do 

1 88 



Renee Mauperin 



give up this marriage — I beseech you — if you love 
me — if you love us all! Oh, I beseech you, Henri! " 

" What's this all mean; have you gone mad? 
What are you making such a scene about? Come, 
that's enough, thank you; get up." 

Renee rose to her feet, and looking straight into 
her brother's eyes she said: 

" Noemi has told me everything! " 

The colour had mounted to her cheeks. Henri 
was as pale as if some one had just spat in his face. 

" You cannot, anyhow, marry her daughter! " 
exclaimed Renee. 

" My dear girl," answered Henri coldly, in a voice 
that trembled, " it seems to me that you are inter- 
fering in things that don't concern you. And you 
will allow me to say that for a young girl " 

" Ah, you mean this is dirt that I ought to know 
nothing of; that is quite true, and I should never 
have known of it but for you." 

" Renee! " Henri approached his sister. He was 
in one of those white rages which are terrible to 
witness, and Renee was alarmed and stepped back. 
He took her by the arm and pointed to the door. 
"Go!" he said, and a moment later he saw her in 
the corridor, putting her hand against the wall for 
support. 



189 



XXV 

" Go up, Henri," said M. Mauperin to his son, 
and then as Henri wanted his father to pass first M. 
Mauperin repeated, " No, go on up." 

Half an hour later father and son were coming 
downstairs again from the office of the Keeper of 
the Seals. 

" Well, you ought to be satisfied with me, Henri," 
observed M. Mauperin, whose face was very red. 
" I have done as you and your mother wished. You 
will have this name." 

« Father " 

" All right, don't let us talk about it. xA.re you 
coming home with me? " he asked, buttoning his 
frock-coat with that military gesture with which old 
soldiers gird up their emotions. 

" No, father, I must ask you to let me leave you 
now. I have so many things to do to-day. I'll come 
to dinner to-morrow." 

" Good-bye, then, till to-morrow. You'd better 
come; your sister is not well." 

When the carriage had driven away with his father 
190 






Renee Mauperin 



Henri drew himself up, looked at his watch, and with 
the brisk, easy step of a man who feels the wind of 
fortune behind him blowing him along, walked 
briskly towards the Rue de la Paix. 

At the corner of the Chaussee d'Antin he went 
into the Cafe Bignon, where some heavy-looking 
young men, suggestive of money and the provinces, 
were waiting for him. During luncheon the conversa- 
tion turned on provincial cattle shows and competi- 
tions, and afterward, while smoking their cigars on the 
boulevards, the questions of the varied succession of 
crops, of drainage, and of liming were brought up, 
and there was a discussion on elections, the opinions 
of the various departments, and on the candidatures 
which had been planned, thought of, or attempted at 
the agricultural meetings. 

At two o'clock Henri left these gentlemen, after 
promising one of them an article on his model farm; 
he then went into his club, looked at the papers, and 
wrote down something in his note-book which ap- 
peared to give him a great deal of trouble to get to 
his mind. He next hurried off to an insurance com- 
pany to read a report, as he had managed to get on 
to the committee, thanks to the commercial fame and 
high repute of his father. At four o'clock he sprang 
into a carriage and paid a round of visits to ladies 
who had either a salon or any influence and acquaint- 
ances at the service of a man with a career. He re- 

191 



Renee Mauperin 



membered, too, that he had not paid his subscription 
to the " Society for the Right Employment of the 
Sabbath among the Working Classes," and he called 
and paid it. 

At seven o'clock, with cordial phrases on the tip 
of his tongue and ready to shake hands with every 
one, he went upstairs at Lemardelay's, where the 
" Friendly Association " of his old college friends held 
its annual banquet. At dessert, when it was his turn 
to speak, he recited the speech he had composed at 
his club, talked of this fraternal love-feast, of coming 
back to his family, of the bonds between the past 
and the future, of help to old comrades who had been 
afflicted with undeserved misfortunes, etc. 

There were bursts of applause, but the orator had 
already gone. He put in an appearance at the 
d'Aguesseau lecture, left there, pulled a white neck- 
tie out of his pocket, put it on in the carriage, and 
showed up at three or four society gatherings. 



192 



XXVI 

The shock which Renee had had on leaving her 
brother's room, and which had made her totter for 
a moment, had brought on palpitation of the heart, 
and for a week afterward she had not been well. She 
had been kept quiet and had taken medicines, but 
she did not recover her gaiety, and time did not ap- 
pear to bring it back to her. On seeing her ill, 
Henri knew very well what was the matter, and he 
had done all in his power to make things up with 
her again. He had been most affectionate, atten- 
tive, and considerate, and had endeavoured to show 
his repentance. He had tried to get into her good 
graces once more, to appease her conscience, and 
to calm her indignation; but his efforts were all in 
vain. He was always conscious of a certain coolness 
in her manner, of a repugnance for him, and of a 
sort of quiet resolution which caused him a vague 
dread. He understood perfectly well that she had 
only forgotten the insult of his brutality; she had 
forgiven her brother, but she had not forgiven him 
as a man. 

13 193 



Renee Mauperin 



Her mother had arranged to take her to Paris one 
day for a little change, and at the last moment had not 
felt well enough to go. Henri had some business to 
do, and he offered to accompany his sister. They 
started, and on reaching Paris drove to the Rue Riche- 
lieu. As they were passing the library Henri told the 
cabman to draw up. 

" Will you wait here for me a moment? " he said 
to his sister, " I want to ask one of the librarians a 
question. Why not come in with me, though," he 
added as an after-thought. " You have always 
wanted to see the manuscript scroll-work and that is 
in the same room. You would find it interesting, and 
I could get my information at the same time." 

Renee went up with her brother to the manu- 
script-room, and Henri took her to the end of a 
table, waited until the prayer-book he had asked for 
was brought, and then went to speak to a librarian 
in one of the window recesses. 

Renee turned over the leaves of her book slowly. 
Just behind her one of the employees was warming 
himself at the hot-air grating. Presently he was 
joined by another, who had just taken some volumes 
and some title-deeds to the desk near which Henri 
was talking, and Renee heard the following conversa- 
tion just behind her: 

" I say, Chamerot, you see that little chap? " 

" Yes, at M. Reisard's desk." 
194 



Renee Mauperin 



" Well, he can flatter himself that he's got hold 
of some information which isn't quite correct. He's 
come to ask whether there used to be a family named 
Villacourt, and whether the name has died out. 
They've told him that it has. Now if he'd asked me, 
I could have told him that some folks of that name 
must be living. I don't know whether it's the same 
family; but there was one of them there before I left 
that part of the world, and a strong, healthy fellow 
too — the eldest, M. Boisjorand — the proof is that we 
had a fight once, and that he knew how to give hard 
blows. Their place was quite near to where we lived. 
One of the turrets of their house could be seen 
above Saint-Mihiel, and from a good distance too; 
but it didn't belong to them in my time. They were 
a spendthrift lot, that family. Oh, they were queer 
ones for nobility; they lived with the charcoal-burners 
in the Croix-du-Soldat woods, at Motte-Noire, like 
regular satyrs." 

Saint-Mihiel, the Croix-du-Soldat woods, and 
Motte-Noire — all these names fixed themselves on 
Renee's memory and haunted her. 

" There, now I have what I wanted," said Henri, 
gaily, when he came back to her to take her away. 



195 



XXVII 

Denoisel had left Renee at her piano, and had 
gone out into the garden. As he came back towards 
the house he was surprised to hear her playing some- 
thing that was not the piece she was learning; then 
all at once the music broke off and all was silent. He 
went to the drawing-room, pushed the door open, 
and discovered Renee seated on the music-stool, her 
face buried in her hands, weeping bitterly. 

" Renee, good heavens! What in the world is the 
matter? " 

Two or three sobs prevented Renee's answering 
at first, and then, wiping her eyes with the backs of 
her hands, as children do, she said in a voice choked 
with tears: 

" It's — it's — too stupid. It's this thing of Cho- 
pin's, for his funeral, you know — his funeral mass, 
that he composed. Papa always tells me not to play 
it. As there was no one in the house to-day — I 
thought you were at the bottom of the garden — oh, 
I knew very well what would happen, but I wanted 
to make myself cry with it, and you see it has an- 

196 



Renee Mauperin 



swered to my heart's content. Isn't it silly of me — 
and for me, too, when I'm naturally so fond of fun! " 

" Don't you feel well, Renee? Come, tell me; 
there's something the matter. You wouldn't cry 
like that." 

" No, there's nothing the matter, I assure you. 
I'm as strong as a horse; there's nothing at all the 
matter, really and truly. If there were anything I 
should tell you, shouldn't I? It all came about 
through that dreadful, stupid music. And to-day, 
too — to-day, when papa has promised to take me to 
see The Straw Hat." 

A faint smile lighted up her wet eyes as she spoke, 
and she continued in the same strain: 

" Only fancy, The Straw Hat — at the Palais 
Royal. It will be fun, I'm sure; I only like pieces 
of that kind. As for the others, dramas and senti- 
mental things — well, I think we have enough to stir 
us up with our own affairs; it isn't worth while going 
in search of trouble. Then, too, crying with other 
people; why, it's like weeping into some one else's 
handkerchief. We are going to take you with us, 
you know — a regular bachelor's outing it's to be. 
Papa said we should dine at a restaurant; and I prom- 
ise you that I'll be as nonsensical, and laugh as I used 
to when I was a little girl — when I had my English 
governess — you remember her? She used to wear 
orange-coloured ribbons, and drink eau de Cologne 

197 



Renee Mauperin 



that she kept in a cupboard until it got in her head. 
She was a nice old thing." 

And as she uttered these words her fingers flew 
over the keyboard, and she attacked an arrangement 
with variations of the Carnival of Venice. 

' You've been to Venice, haven't you? " she said 
suddenly, stopping short. 

" Yes." 

" Isn't it odd that there should be a spot like 
that on earth, that I don't know and yet that attracts 
me and makes me dream of it? For some people it's 
one place, and for others it's another. Now, I've 
never wanted to see any place except Venice. I'm 
going to say something silly — Venice seems to me 
like a city where all the musicians should be buried." 

She put her fingers on the notes again, but she 
only skimmed over them without striking them at 
all, as if she were just caressing the silence of the 
piano. Her hands then fell on her knees again, and 
in a pensive manner, giving way to her thoughts, she 
half turned her head towards Denoisel. 

" You see," she said, " it seems as though there 
is sadness in the very air. I don't know how it is, 
but there are days when the sun is shining, when 
I have nothing the matter with me, no worry and 
no troubles to face; and yet I positively want to be 
sad, I try to get the blues, and feel as though I must 
cry. Many a time I've said I had a headache and gone 

198 



Renee Mauperin 

to bed, just simply for the sake of having a good cry, 
of burying my face in the pillow; it did me ever so 
much good. And at such times I haven't the energy 
to fight against it or to try to overcome it. It's just 
the same when I am going off in a faint; there's a cer- 
tain charm in feeling all my courage leaving me " 

"There, there, that's enough, Renee dear! I'll 
have your horse saddled and we'll go for a ride." 

" Ah, that's a good idea! But I warn you I shall 
go like the wind, to-day." 



199 



XXVIII 

" What was he to do? poor Montbreton has four 
children, and none too much money," said M. Mau- 
perin with a sigh, as he folded up the newspaper in 
which he had just been reading the official appoint- 
ments and put it at some distance from him on the 
table. 

" Yes, people always say that. As soon as any 
one ever does anything mean, people always say l He 
has children.' One would think that in society people 
only had children for the sake of that — for the sake 
of being able to beg, and to do a lot of mean things. 
It's just as though the fact of being the father of a 
family gave you the right to be a scoundrel." 

" Come, come, Renee," M. Mauperin began. 

" No, it's quite true. I only know two kinds of 
people: the straightforward, honest ones; and then 
the others. Four children! But that only ought to 
serve as an excuse for a father when he steals a loaf. 
Mere Gigogne would have had the right to poison hers 
according to that, then. I'm sure Denoisel thinks as 
I do." 

200 



Renee Mauperin 



"I? Not at all; indeed I don't! I vote for in- 
dulgence in favour of married folks — fathers of fami- 
lies. I should like to see people more charitable, 
too, towards any one who has a vice — a vice which 
may be rather ruinous, but which one cannot give up. 
As to the others, those who have nothing to use their 
money for, no vice, no wife, no children, and who 
sell themselves, ruin themselves, bow down, humili- 
ate, enrich, and degrade themselves — ah! I'd give 
all such over to you willingly." 

" I'm not going to talk to you," said Renee in a 
piqued tone. " Anyhow, papa," she went on, " I can- 
not understand how it is that it does not make you 
indignant, you who have always sacrificed everything 
to your opinions. It's disgusting what he has done, 
and that's the long and short of it." 

" I do not say that it isn't; but you get so ex- 
cited, child, you get so excited." 

" I should think so. Yes, I do get excited — and 
enough to make me, too. Only fancy, a man who 
owed everything to the other government, and who 
said everything bad he could about the present one; 
and now he joins this one. Why, he's a wretch! — 
your friend, Montbreton — a wretch! " 

"Ah! my dear child, it's very easy to say that. 
When you have had a little more experience of life 
you will be more indulgent. One has to be more 
merciful. You are young." 

201 



> 



Renee Mauperin 

" No, it's something I've inherited, this is. I'm 
your daughter, and there's too much of you in me, 
that's what it is. I shall never be able to swallow 
things that disgust me. It's the way I'm made — 
how can I help it? Every time I see any one I know 
— or even any one I don't know — fail in what you men 
call points of honour, well, I can't help it at all, but 
it has the same effect on me as the sight of a toad. I 
have such a horror of it, and it disgusts me so, that I 
want to step on it. Come now, do you call a man hon- 
ourable because he takes care to only do abominable 
things for which he can't be tried in the law courts? 
Do you call a man honourable when he has done 
something for which he must blush when he is alone? 
Is a man honourable when he has done things for 
which no one can reproach him and for which he 
cannot be punished, but which tarnish his conscience? 
I think there are things that are lower and viler than 
cheating at the card-table; and the indulgence with 
which society looks on makes me feel as though soci- 
ety is an accomplice, and I think it is perfectly revolt- 
ing. There are things that are so disloyal, so dishon- 
est, that when I think of them it makes me quite mer- 
ciful towards out-and-out scoundrels. You see they 
do risk something; their life is at stake and their lib- 
erty. They go in for things prepared to win or lose: 
they don't put gloves on to do their infamous deeds. 
I like that better; it's not so cowardly, anyhow!'' 

202 



Renee Mauperin 



Renee was seated on a sofa at the far side of the 
drawing-room. Her arms were folded, her hands 
feverish, and her whole body quivering with emotion. 
She spoke in jerks, and her voice vibrated with the 
wrath she felt in her very soul. Her eyes looked 
like fire lighting up her face, which was in the 
shade. 

" And very interesting, too, he is," she continued, 
" your M. de Montbreton. He has an income of six 
hundred or six hundred and fifty pounds. If he 
did not pay quite such a high house-rent, and if his 
daughters had not always had their dresses made by 
Mme. Carpentier " 

" Ah, this requires consideration," put in Denoi- 
sel. " A man who has more than two hundred a 
year, if a bachelor, and more than four hundred if 
married, can perfectly well remain faithful to a gov- 
ernment which is no longer in power. His means 
allow him to regret " 

" And he will expect you to esteem him, to shake 
hands with him, and raise your hat to him as usual," 
continued Renee. " No, it is rather too much! I 
hope when he comes here, papa — well, I shall 
promptly go straight out of the room." 

" Will you have a glass of water, Renee? " asked 
M. Mauperin, smiling; " you know orators always do. 
You were really fine just then. Such eloquence — it 
flowed like a brook." 

203 



Renee Mauperin 



" Yes, make fun of me by all means. You know 
I get carried away, as you tell me. And your Mont- 
breton — but how silly I am, to be sure. He doesn't 
belong to us, this man, does he? Oh, if it were one 
of my family who had done such a thing, such a 
dishonourable thing, such a " 

She stopped short for a second, and then began 
again: 

" I think," she said, speaking with an effort, as 
though the tears were coming into her eyes, " I think 
I could never love him again. Yes, it seems to me 
as though my heart would be perfectly hard as far 
as he was concerned. " 

" Good! this is quite touching. We had the 
young orator just now, and at present it is the lit- 
tle girl's turn. You'd do better to come and look 
at this caricature album that Davarande has sent 
your mother." 

" Ah yes, let's look at that," said Renee, going 
quickly across to her father and leaning on his 
shoulder as he turned over the leaves. . She glanced 
at two or three pages and then looked away. 

" There, I've had enough of them, thank you. 
Goodness, how can people enjoy making things ugly 
— uglier than nature? What a queer idea. Now in 
art, in books, and in everything, I'm for all that is 
beautiful, and not for what is ugly. Then, too, I don't 
think caricatures are amusing. It's the same with 

204 



Renee Mauperin 



hunchbacks — it never makes me laugh to see a hunch- 
back. Do you like caricatures, Denoisel? " 

" Do I? No, they make me want to howl. Yes, 
it is a kind of comical thing that hurts me," answered 
Denoisel, picking up a Review that was next the 
album. " Caricatures are like petrified jokes to me. 
I can never see one on a table without thinking of a 
lot of dismal things, such as the wit of the Direc- 
tory, Carle Vernet's drawings, and the gaiety of mid- 
dle-class society." 

" Thank you," said M. Mauperin laughing, " and 
in addition to that you are cutting my Revue des 
Deux Mondes with a match. How hopeless he is, 
to be sure, Denoisel." 

" Do you want a knife, Denoisel? " asked Renee, 
plunging her hand into her pockets and pulling out 
a whole collection of things, which she threw on the 
table. 

" By Jove! " exclaimed Denoisel, " why, you have 
a regular museum in your pockets. You'd have 
enough for a whole sale at the auction-rooms. What 
in the world are all those things? " 

" Presents from a certain person, and they go 
about with me everywhere. There's the knife for 
you," and Renee showed it to her father before pass- 
ing it to Denoisel. " Do you remember where you 
bought it for me? " she asked. " It was at Langres 
once when we had stopped for a fresh horse; oh, it's 

205 



Renee Mauperin 



a very old one. This one," she continued, picking 
up another, " you brought me from Nogent. It has 
a silver blade, if you. please; I gave you a halfpenny 
for it, do you remember? " 

" Ah, if we are to begin making inventories! " said 
M. Mauperin laughing. 

"And what's in that?" asked Denoisel, pointing 
to a little worn-out pocket-book stuffed full of papers, 
the dirty crumpled edges of which could be seen at 
each end. 

" That? Oh, those are my secrets," and, picking 
up all the things she had thrown on the table, she 
put them quickly back in her pocket with the little 
book. The next minute, with a burst of laughter 
and diving once more into her pockets, she pulled 
the book out again, opened the flap, and scattered 
all the little papers on the table in front of Denoisel, 
and without opening them proceeded to explain what 
they were. " There, this is a prescription that was 
given for papa when he was ill. That's a song he 
composed for me two years ago for my birthday " 

" There, that's enough! Pack up your relics; put 
all that out of sight," said M. Mauperin, sweeping 
all the little papers from him just as the door opened 
and M. Dardouillet entered. 

" Oh, you've mixed them all up for me!" ex- 
claimed Renee, looking annoyed as she put them back 
in her pocket-book. 

206 



XXIX 

A month later, in the little studio, Renee said 
to Denoisel: "Am I really romantic — do you think 
I am? " 

" Romantic — romantic? In the first place, what 
do you mean by romantic? " 

" Oh, you know what I mean; having ideas that 
are not like every one else's, and fancying a lot of 
things that can never happen. For instance, a girl 
is romantic when it would be a great trouble to her 
to marry, as girls do marry, a man with nothing ex- 
traordinary about him, who is introduced to her by 
papa and mamma, and who has not even so much 
as saved her life by stopping a horse that has taken 
fright, or by dragging her out of the water. You 
don't imagine I'm one of that sort, I hope? " 

" No; at least I don't know at all. I'd wager that 
you yourself don't know, either." 

" Nonsense. It may be, in the first place, be- 
cause I have no imagination; but it has always seemed 
to me so odd to have an ideal — to dream about some 
imaginary man. It's just the same with the heroes 

207 



Renee Mauperin 

in novels; they've never turned my head. I always 
think they are too well-bred, too handsome, too 
rotten, with all their accomplishments. I get so sick 
of them in the end. But it isn't that. Tell me now, 
suppose they wanted to make you live your whole 

life long with a creature — a creature who " 

"A creature — what sort of a creature? " 
" Let me finish what I am saying. A man, then, 
who did not answer at all to certain delicate little 
requirements of your nature, who did not strike you 
as being poetical — there, that's what I mean — not a 
scrap poetical, but who on the other hand made up 
for what was wanting in him, in other ways, by such 
kindness — well, such kindness as one never meets 

with " 

" As much kindness as all that? Oh, I should not 
hesitate; I should take the kindness blindfold. Dear 
me, yes, indeed I should. It's so rare." 

" You think kindness worth a great deal then? " 
" I do, Renee. I value it as one values what one 
has lost." 

" You? Why, you are always very kind." 
" I am not downright bad; but that's all. I might 
perhaps be envious if I had more modesty and less 
pride. But as for always being kind, oh no, I am not. 
Life cures you of that just as it cures you of being 
a child. One gets over one's good-nature, Renee, 
just as one gets over teething." 

208 



/ 



Renee Mauperin 

" Then you think that a kindly disposition and a 
good heart " 

" Yes, I mean the goodness that endures in spite 
of men and in spite of experience — such goodness 
as I have met with in a primitive state in two or 
three men in my life. I look upon it as the best and 
most divine quality a man can have." 

: ' Yes, but if a man who is very good, as good as 
those you describe — this is just a supposition, you 
know — suppose he had feet that looked like lumps 
of cake in his boots. And then, suppose he were 
corpulent, this good man, this very good man? " 

" Well, one need not look at his feet nor at his 
corpulency — that's all. Oh, I beg your pardon, 
though, of course, I had completely forgotten." 

" What? " 

" Oh, nothing; except that you are a woman." 

" But that's very insulting to my sex — that re- 
mark of yours." 

Denoisel did not answer, and the conversation 
ceased for a few minutes. 

" Have you ever wished for wealth? " Renee 
began again. 

"Yes, several times; but absolutely for the sake 
of treating it as it deserves to be treated — to be dis- 
respectful to it." 

" How do you mean? " 

" Why, yes, I should like to be rich just to show 
J 4 203 



Renee Mauperin 



the contempt I have for money. I remember that 
two or three times I have fallen asleep with the idea 
of going to Italy to get married." 

" To Italy? " 

" Yes, there are more Russian princesses there 
than anywhere else, and Russian princesses are the 
only women left in this world who will marry a 
man without a farthing. Then, too, I was prepared 
to be contented with a princess who was not very 
well off. I was not at all exacting, and would have 
come down without a murmur to thirty thousand 
pounds a year. That was my very lowest figure 
though." 

" Indeed! " said Renee laughing. "And what 
should you have done with all that money? " 

" I should just have poured it away in streams be- 
tween my fingers; it would have been something as- 
tounding to see; something that I have never seen rich 
people do with their money. I think all the million- 
aires ought to be ashamed of themselves. For in- 
stance, from the way in which a man lives who has 
four thousand a year, and the way a man lives who 
has forty thousand, could you tell their difference of 
fortune? Now with me you would have known. 
For a whole year I should have flung away my money 
in all kinds of caprices, fancies, and follies; I should 
have dazzled and fairly humiliated Paris; I should 
have been like a sun-god showering bank-notes down; 

210 



Renee Mauperin 



I should have positively degraded my gold by all 
kinds of prodigalities; and at the end of a year, day 
for day, I should have left my wife." 

"Nonsense!" 

" Certainly; in order to prove to myself that I did 
not love money. If I had not left her, I should have 
considered myself dishonoured." 

" Well, what extraordinary ideas! I must confess 
that I haven't arrived at your philosophy yet. A 
large fortune and all that it gives you, all kinds of 
enjoyment and luxuries, houses, carriages, and then 
the pleasure of making the people you don't like en- 
vious — of annoying them. Oh, I think it would be 
most delightful to be rich." 

" I told you just now, Renee, that you were a 
woman — merely a woman." 



211 



XXX 

Denoisel had spoken as he really felt. If he 
had sometimes wished for wealth, he had never envied 
people who had it. He had a sincere and thorough 
contempt for money — the contempt of a man who is 
rich with very little. 

Denoisel was a Parisian, or rather he was the true 
Parisian. Well up in all the experiences of Paris, 
wonderfully skilled in the great art of living, thanks 
to the habits and customs of Parisian life, he was the 
very man for that life; he had all its instincts, its 
sentiments, and its genius. He represented perfectly 
that very modern personage, the ciidlizgcLinan, tri- 
umphing, day by day, like the inhabitants of a forest 
of Bondy, over the price of things, over the costly 
life of capitals, as the savage triumphs over nature in 
a virgin forest. He had all the show and glitter of 
wealth. He lived among rich people, frequented 
their restaurants and clubs, had their habits, and 
shared in their amusements. He knew some of the 
wealthiest people, and all that money opened to them 
was open to him. He was seen at the grand private 

212 



Renee Mauperin 



balls of the Provengaux, at the races, and at first 
nights at the theatres. In summer he went to the 
watering-places, to the sea, and to the gambling re- 
sorts. He dressed like a man who owns a carriage. 

And yet Denoisel only possessed between four 
and five thousand pounds. Belonging to a family 
that had been steeped in the ideas of the past with 
regard to property, attached and devoted to landed 
wealth, always talking of bankruptcy, and as mis- 
trustful of stocks and shares as peasants formerly were 
of bank-notes, Denoisel had shaken himself free of all 
the prejudices of his own people. Without troubling 
about the advice, the remonstrances, the indignation, 
and the threats of old and distant relatives, he had sold 
the small farms which his father and mother had left 
him. It seemed to him that there was no longer any 
proportion between the revenue of land and the ex- 
penses of modern life. In his opinion landed es- 
tate might have been a means of wealth at the time 
when Paul de Kock's novels said of a young man, 
" Paul was rich, he had two hundred and fifty a year." 
But since that time it had, according to him, become 
an anachronism, a kind of archaic property, a fancy 
for which was only permissible in very wealthy people. 
He therefore realized his land and turned it into a 
small capital, which he placed, after consulting with a 
friend of his who frequented the Stock Exchange, in 
foreign bonds, in shares and securities, thus doubling 

213 



Renee Mauperin 

and tripling his revenue without any risk to his regu- 
lar income. Having thus converted his capital into a 
figure which meant nothing, except in the eyes of 
a notary, and which no longer regulated his current 
means, Denoisel arranged his life as he had done his 
money. He organized his expenses. He knew ex- 
actly the cost in Paris of vanity, little extras, bargains, 
and all such ruinous things. He was not ashamed to 
add up a bill himself before paying it. Away from 
home he only smoked fourpenny cigars, but at home 
he smoked pipes. He knew where to buy things, dis- 
covered the new shops, which give such good value 
during the first three months. He knew the wine-cel- 
lars at the various restaurants, ordered Chambertin a 
certain distance up the boulevards, and only ordered 
it there. If he gave a dinner, his menu won the respect 
of the waiter. And with all that, he knew how to 
order supper for four shillings at the Cafe Anglais. 

All his expenses were regulated with the same 
skill. He went to one of the first tailors in Paris, 
but a friend of his who was in the Foreign Office 
procured for him from London all the suits he wanted 
between the seasons. When he had a present to 
make, or any New Year's gifts to buy, he always knew 
of a cargo of Indian or Chinese things that had just 
arrived, or he remembered an old piece of Saxony 
or Sevres china that was lying hidden away in some 
shop in an unfrequented part of Paris, one of those 

214 



Renee Mauperin 



old curiosities, the price of which cannot be discov- 
ered by the person for whom it is destined. All this 
with Denoisel was spontaneous,, natural, and instinc- 
tive. This never-ending victory of Parisian intelli- 
gence over all the extravagance of life had nothing 
of the meanness and pettiness of sordid calculation 
about it. It was the happy discovery of a scheme of 
existence under satisfactory conditions, and not a 
series of vulgar petty economies, and in the well- 
organized expenditure of his six hundred pounds a 
year the man remained liberal and high-minded: he 
avoided what was too expensive for him, and never 
attempted to beat prices down. Denoisel had a flat 
of his own on the first storey of a well-ordered house 
with a carpeted staircase. He had only three rooms, 
but the Boulevard des Italiens was at his very door. 
His little drawing-room, which he had furnished as 
a smoking-den, was charming. It was one of those 
snug little rooms which Parisian upholsterers are so 
clever in arranging. It was all draped and furnished 
with chintz, and had divans as wide as beds. It had 
been Denoisers own wish that the absence of all 
objects of art should complete the cheerful look of 
the room. He was waited on in the morning by his 
hall-porter, who brought him a cup of chocolate and 
did all the necessary housework. He dined at a club 
or restaurant or with friends. 

The low rent and the simplicity of his household 
215 



Renee Mauperin 



and domestic arrangements left Denoisel more of that 
money of which wealthy people are so often short, 
that money for the little luxuries of life, which is 
more necessary than any other in Paris, and which 
is known as pocket-money. Occasionally, however, 
that force majeure, the Unforeseen, would suddenly 
arrive in the midst of this regular existence and dis- 
arrange its equilibrium and its budget. 

Denoisel would then disappear from Paris for a 
time. He would ruralize at some little country inn, 
near a river, on half-a-crown a day, and he would 
spend no other money than what was necessary for 
tobacco. Two or three winters, finding himself quite 
out of funds, he had emigrated, and, on discovering 
a city like Florence, where happiness costs nothing 
and where the living is almost as inexpensive as that 
happiness, he had stayed there six months, lodging in 
a room with a cupola, dining a la trattoria on truffles 
with Parmesan cheese, passing his evenings in the 
boxes of society people, going to the Grand Duke's 
balls, feted, invited everywhere, with white camellias 
in his buttonhole — economizing in the happiest way 
in the world. 

Denoisel spent no more for his love-affairs than 
for other things. It was no longer a question of self- 
respect with him, so that he only paid what he thought 
them worth. And yet such things had been his one 
allurement as a young man. He had, however, always 

216 



Renee Mauperin 

been cool and methodical, even in his love-affairs. He 
had wanted, in a lordly way, to test for himself what 
the love of the woman who was the most in vogue 
in Paris was like. He allowed himself for this ex- 
periment about two thousand pounds of the seven 
thousand he then possessed, and, during the six 
months that he was the accepted lover of the cele- 
brated Genicot, a woman who would give a five- 
pound note as a tip to her postillion on returning from 
the Marche, he lived in the same style as a man with 
five thousand a year. When the six months were 
over he left her, and she, for the first time in her life, 
was in love with a man who had paid for that love. 

Tempered by this proof he had had several other 
experiences afterward, until they had palled on him; 
and then there had suddenly come to him, not a 
desire for further love adventures, but a great curi- 
osity about women. He set out to discover all that 
was unforeseen, unexpected, and unknown to him in 
woman. All actresses seemed to him very much the 
same kind of courtesan, and all courtesans very much 
the same kind of actress. What attracted him now 
was the unclassed woman, the woman that bewilders 
the observer and the oldest Parisian. He often went 
wandering about at night, vaguely and irresistibly led 
on by one of those creatures who are neither all vice 
nor all virtue, and who walk so gracefully along in 
the mire. Sometimes he was dazzled by one of those 

217 



Renee Mauperin 



fine-looking girls, so often seen in Paris, who seem 
to brighten everything as they pass along, and he 
would turn round to look at her and stand there even 
after she had suddenly disappeared in the darkness of 
some passage. His vocation was to discover tar- 
nished stars. Now and then in some faubourg he 
would come across one of these marvellous daughters 
of the people and of Nature, and he would talk to 
her, watch her, listen to her, and study her; then 
when she wearied him he would let her go, and it 
would amuse him later on to raise his hat to her 
when he met her again driving in a carriage. 

Denoisel's wealthy air won for him a welcome 
in social circles. He soon established himself there 
and on a superior footing, thanks to his geniality and 
wit, the services of every kind he was always ready 
to render, and the need every one had of him. His 
large circle of acquaintances among foreigners, art- 
ists, and theatrical people, his knowledge of the ins 
and outs of things when small favours were required, 
made him very valuable on hundreds of occasions. 
Every one applied to him for a box at a theatre, per- 
mission to visit a prison or a picture gallery, an 
entrance for a lady to the law courts at some trial, 
or a foreign decoration for some man. In two or 
three duels in which he had served as seconds, he 
had shown sound sense, decision, and a manly regard 
for the honour as well as the life of the man for whom 

218 



Renee Mauperin 



he was answerable. People were under all kinds of 
obligations to him, and the respect they had for him 
was not lessened by his reputation as a first-rate 
swordsman. His character had won for him the 
esteem of all with whom he came in contact, and he 
was even held in high consideration by wealthy 
people, whose millions, nevertheless, were not always 
respected by him. 



219 



XXXI 

" My wife, for instance, wanted to have her por- 
trait painted by Ingres. You've seen it — it isn't like 
her — but it's by Ingres. Well, do you know what he 
asked me for it? Four hundred pounds. I paid it 
him, but I consider that taking advantage; it's the 
war against capital. Do you mean to say that be- 
cause a man's name is known he should make me 
pay just what he likes? because he's an artist, he 
has no price, no fixed rate, he has a right to fleece 
me? Why, according to that he might ask me a 
million for it. It's like the doctors who make you 
pay according to your fortune. To begin with, how 
does any one know what I have? I call it an iniquity. 
Yes, four hundred pounds; what do you think of 
that? " 

M. Bourjot was standing by the chimney-piece 
talking to Denoisel. He put the other foot, on which 
he had been standing, to the fire as he spoke. 

" Upon my word," said Denoisel, very seriously, 
"you are quite right: all these folks take advantage 
of their reputation. You see there's only one way 

220 



Renee Mauperin 



to prevent it, and that would be to decree a legal 
maximum for talent, a maximum for master-pieces. 
Why, yes! It would be very easy." 

" That's it; that would be the very thing! " ex- 
claimed M. Bourjot, " and it would be quite just, 
for you see " 

The Bourjots had dined that evening alone with 
the Mauperins. The two families had been talking 
of the wedding, and were only waiting to fix the day, 
until the expiration of a year from the date of the 
first insertion of the name of Villacourt in the Moni- 
tor. It was M. Bourjot who had insisted on this 
delay. The ladies were talking about the trousseau, 
jewellery, laces, and wedding-presents, and Mme. 
Mauperin, who was seated by Mme. Bourjot, was 
contemplating her as though she were a person who 
had performed a miracle. 

M. Mauperin's face beamed with joy. He had in 
the end yielded to the fascination of money. This 
great, upright man, genuine, severe, rigid, and incor- 
ruptible as he was, had gradually allowed the vast 
wealth of the Bourjots to come into his thoughts and 
into his dreams, to appeal to him and to his instincts 
as a practical man, as an old man, the father of a 
family and a manufacturer. He had been won over 
and disarmed. Ever since his son's success with re- 
gard to this marriage, he had felt that respect for 
Henri which ability or the prospect of a large for- 

221 



Renee Mauperin 

tune inspires in people, and, without being aware of 
it himself, he scarcely blamed him now for having 
changed his name. Fathers are but men, after all. 

Renee, who for some time past had been worried, 
thoughtful, and low-spirited, was almost cheerful this 
evening. She was amusing herself with blowing 
about the fluffy feathers which Noemi was wearing 
in her hair. The latter, languid and absent-minded, 
with a dreamy look in her eyes, was replying in mono- 
syllables to Mme. Davarande's ceaseless chatter. 

" Nowadays, everything is against money," began 
M. Bourjot again, sententiously. " There's a league 
— now, for instance, I made a road for the people at 
Sannois. Well, do you imagine that they even touch 
their hats to us? Oh dear no, never. In 1848 we gave 
them bushels of corn; and what do you think they 
said? Excuse me, ladies, if I repeat their words. They 
said: ' That old beast must be afraid of us! ' That was 
all the gratitude I had. I started a model farm, and 
I applied to the Government for a man to manage it; 
a red-hot radical was sent to me, a rascal who had 
spent his life running down the rich. At present I 
have to do with a Municipal Council with the most 
detestable opinions. I find work for every one, don't 
I? Thanks to us, the country round is prosperous. 
Well, if there were to be a revolution, now, I am con- 
vinced that they would set fire to our place. They'd 
have no compunction about that. You've no idea 

222 



Renee Mauperin 



what enemies you get if you pay as much as three 
hundred and sixty pounds for taxes. They'd simply 
burn us out of house and home — they'd have no 
scruple about it. You see what happened in Feb- 
ruary. Oh, my ideas with regard to the people have 
quite changed; and they are preparing a nice future 
for us, you can count on that. We shall be simply 
ruined by a lot of penniless wretches. I can see that 
beforehand. I often think of all these things. If 
only it were not for one's children — money, as far as 
I am concerned " 

" What's that you are saying, neighbour? " asked 
M. Mauperin, approaching. 

" I'm saying that I'm afraid the day will come 
when our children will be short of bread, M. Mau- 
perin; that's what I'm saying." 

" You'll make them hesitate about this wedding 
if you talk like that," said M. Mauperin. 

" Oh, if my husband begins with his gloomy ideas, 
if he's going to talk about the end of the world — " 
put in Mme. Bourjot. 

" I congratulate you that you don't feel the 
anxiety I do," remarked M. Bourjot, bowing to 
his wife; " but I can assure you that, without being 
weak-minded, there is every reason for feeling very 
uneasy." 

" Certainly, certainly," said Denoisel. " I think 
that money is in danger, in great danger, in very 

223 



Renee Mauperin 



great danger indeed. In the first place, it is threat- 
ened by that envy which is at the bottom of nearly 
all revolutions; and then by progress, which baptizes 
the revolutions." 

" But, sir, such progress would be infamous. 
Take me, for instance: no one could doubt me. I 
used to be a Liberal — I am now, in fact. I am a 
soldier of Liberty, a born Republican; I am for prog- 
ress of every kind. But a revolution against wealth — 
why, it would be barbarous! We should be going 
back to savage times. What we want is justice and 
common sense. Can you imagine now a society with- 
out wealth? " 

" No, not any more than a greasy pole without 
a silver cup." 

" What," continued M. Bourjot, who in his ex- 
citement had not caught Denoisers words, " the 
money that I have earned with hard work, honestly 
and with the greatest difficulty — the money that is 
mine, that I have made, and which is for my children 
— why, there is nothing more sacred! I even look 
upon the income-tax as a violation of property." 

" Why, yes," said Denoisel in the most perfectly 
good-natured tone, " I am quite of your opinion. 
And I should be very sorry," he added wickedly, 
" to make things seem blacker to you than they 
already do. But you see we have had a revolution 
against the nobility; we shall have one against wealth, 

224 



Renee Mauperin 



Great names have been abolished by the guillotine, 
and great fortunes will be done away with next. A 
man was considered guilty if his name happened to 
be M. de Montmorency; it will be criminal to be 
M. Two Thousand Pounds a Year. Things are cer- 
tainly getting on. I can speak all the more freely 
as I am absolutely disinterested, myself. I should 
not have had anything to be guillotined for in the old 
days, and I haven't enough to be ruined for nowa- 
days. So, you see " 

" Excuse me," put in M. Bourjot, solemnly, " but 
your comparison — no one could deplore excesses 
more than I do, and the event of 1793 was a great 
crime, sir. The nobility were treated abominably, 
and all honest people must be of the same opinion 
as I am." 

M. Mauperin smiled as he thought of the Bour- 
jot of 1822. 

" But then," continued M. Bourjot, " the situa- 
tion is not the same at all. Social conditions are 
entirely changed, the basis of society has been re- 
stored. Everything is different. There were reasons 
— or pretexts, if you prefer that — for this hatred of 
the nobility. The Revolution of '89 was against 
privileges, which I am not criticising, but which ex- 
isted. That is quite different. The fact was people 
wanted equality. It was more or less legitimate that 
they should have it, but at least there was some rea- 
j s 225 



Renee Mauperin 



son in it. At present all that is altered; and where 
are the privileges? One man is as good as an- 
other. Hasn't every man a vote? You may say, 
' What about money? ' Well, every one can earn 
money; all trades and professions are open to every 
one." 

" Except those that are not," put in Denoisel. 

" In short, all men can now arrive at anything and 
everything. The only things necessary are hard 
work, intelligence " 

" And circumstances," put in Denoisel, once more. 

" Circumstances must be made, sir, by each man 
himself. Just look at what society is. We are all 
parvenus. My father was a cloth merchant — in a 
wholesale way, certainly — and yet you see — now this 
is equality, sir, the real and the right kind of equality. 
There is no such thing as caste now. The upper class 
springs from the people, and the people rise to the 
upper class. I could have found a count for my 
daughter, if I had wanted to. But it is just simply 
a case of evil instincts, evil passions, and these com- 
munist ideas — it is all this which is against wealth. 
We hear a lot of rant about poverty and misery. 
Well, I can tell you this, there has never been so much 
done for the people as at present. There is great 
progress with regard to comfort and well-being in 
France. People who never used to eat meat, now eat 
it twice a week. These are facts; and I am sure that 

226 



Renee Mauperin 



on that subject our young social economist, M. 
Henri, could tell us " 

" Yes, yes," said Henri, " that has been proved. 
In twenty-five years the increase of cattle has been 
twelve per cent. By dividing the population of 
France into twelve millions inhabiting the towns, and 
twenty-four to twenty-five millions inhabiting the 
country districts, it is reckoned that the former con- 
sume about sixty-five kilogrammes a head each year, 
and the latter twenty kilogrammes twenty-six centi- 
grammes. I can guarantee the figures. What is 
quite sure is that the most conscientious estimates 
prove that since 1789 there has been an increase in 
the average length of life, and this progress is the 
surest sign of prosperity for a nation. Statistics " 

" Ah, statistics, the chief of the inexact sciences! " 
interrupted Denoisel, who delighted in muddling M. 
Bourjot's brain with paradoxes. " But I grant that," 
he went on. " I grant that the lives of the people 
have been prolonged, and that they eat more meat 
than they have ever eaten. Do you, on that account, 
believe in the immortality of the present social 
constitution? There has been a revolution which 
has brought about the reign of the middle class — 
that is to say, the reign of money; and now you 
say: ' Everything is finished; there must be no other; 
there can be no legitimate revolution now.' That is 
quite natural; but, between ourselves, I don't know 

227 



Renee Mauperin 

up to what point the supremacy of the middle class 
can be considered as final. As far as you are con- 
cerned, when once political equality is given to all, 
social equality is complete: that is perhaps quite just; 
but the thing is to convince people of it, whose in- 
terest it is not to believe it. One man is as good as 
another. Certainly he may be in the eyes of God. 
Every one in this century of ours has a right to wear 
a black coat — provided he can pay for it. Modern 
equality — shall I explain briefly what it is? It is the 
same equality as our conscription; every man draws 
his number, but if you can pay one hundred and 
twenty pounds, you have the right of sending another 
man to be killed instead of you. You spoke of priv- 
ileges; there are no such things now, that's true. The 
Bastille was destroyed; but it gave birth to others 
first. Let us take, for instance, Justice, and I do 
acknowledge that a man's position, his name, and 
his money weigh less and are made less of in courts 
of justice than anywhere else. Well, commit a crime, 
and be, let us say, a peer of France; you would be 
allowed poison instead of the scaffold. Take notice 
that I think it should be so; I am only mentioning it 
to show you how inequalities spring up again, and, 
indeed, when I see the ground that they cover now I 
wonder where the others could have been. Hered- 
itary rights — something else that the Revolution 
thought it had buried. All that was an abuse of the 

228 



Renee Mauperin 

former Government, about which enough has been 
said. Well, I should just like to know whether, at 
present, the son of a politician does not inherit his 
father's name and all the privileges connected with 
that name, his father's electors, his connection, his 
place everywhere, and his chair at the Academy? We 
are simply overrun with these sons. We come across 
them everywhere; they take all the good berths and, 
thanks to these reversions, everything is barred for 
other people. The fact is that old customs are terrible 
things for unmaking laws. You are wealthy, and you 
say money is sacred. But why? Well, you say * We 
are not a caste.' No, but you are already an aristoc- 
racy, and quite a new aristocracy, the insolence of 
which has already surpassed all the impertinences of 
the oldest aristocracies on the globe. There is no court 
now, you say. There never has been one, I should 
imagine, in the whole history of the world where 
people have had to put up with such contempt as in 
the private office of certain great bankers. You talk 
of evil instincts and evil passions. Well, the power of 
the wealthy middle class is not calculated to elevate 
the mind. When the higher ranks of society are en- 
gaged in digesting and placing out money there are 
no longer any ideas, nothing in fact but appetites, in 
the class below. Formerly, when by the side of 
money there was something above it and beyond it, 
during a revolution instead of asking bluntly for 

229 



v 



Renee Mauperin 

money — clumsy rough coins with which to buy their 
happiness — the people contented themselves with 
asking for the change of colours on a flag, or with 
having a few words written over a guard-house, or 
even with glorious victories that were quite hollow. 
But in our times — oh, we all know where the heart of 
Paris is now. The bank would be besieged instead 
of the Hotel de ville. Ah, the bourgeoisie has made a 
great mistake! " 

" And what is the mistake, pray? " asked M. 
Bourjot, astounded by Denoisel's tirade. 

" That of not leaving Paradise in heaven — which 
was certainly its place. The day when the poor could 
no longer comfort themselves with the thought that 
the next life would make up to them for this, the 
day when the people gave up counting on the happi- 
ness of the other world — oh, I can tell you, Voltaire 
did a lot of harm to the wealthy classes " 

" Ah, you are right there!" exclaimed M. Bour- 
jot, impulsively. " That is quite evident. All these 
wretches ought to go to church regularly " 






230 



XXXII 

There was a grand ball at the Bourjots' in hon- 
our of the approaching marriage of their daughter 
with M. Mauperin de Villacourt. 

" You are going in for it to-day. How you are 
dancing! " said Renee to Noemi, fanning her as she 
stood talking in a corner of the vast drawing-room. 

" I have never danced so much, that's quite true," 
answered Noemi, taking her friend's arm and leading 
her away into the small drawing-room. "No, never," 
she continued, drawing Renee to her and kissing her. 
" Oh, how lovely it is to be happy," and then kissing 
her again in a perfect fever of joy, she said: " She 
does not care for him now. Oh, I'm quite sure she 
doesn't care for him. In the old days I could see 
she did by the very way she got up when he came; 
by her eyes, her voice, the very rustle of her dress, 
everything. Then when he wasn't there, I could tell 
by her silence she was thinking of him. You are 
surprised at my noticing, silly thing that I am; but 
there are some things that I understand with this " — ■ 
and she drew Renee's hand on to her white moire 

231 



Renee Mauperin 



dress just where her heart was — -" and this never de- 
ceives me." 

" And you love him now, do you? " asked Renee. 

Noemi stopped her saying any more by pressing 
her bouquet of roses against her friend's lips. 

" Mademoiselle, you promised me the first 
redowa," and a young man took Noemi away. She 
turned as she reached the door and threw a kiss to 
Renee with the tips of her fingers. 

Noemi's confession had given Renee a thrill of 
joy, and she had revelled in the smile on her friend's 
face. She herself felt immensely comforted and re- 
lieved. In an instant everything had changed for 
her, and the thought that Noemi loved her brother 
chased away all other ideas. She no longer saw the 
shame and the crime which she had so long seen 
in this marriage. She kept repeating to herself 
that Noemi loved him, that they both loved each 
other. The rest all belonged to the past, and they 
would each of them forget that past, Noemi by for- 
giving it, arid Henri by redeeming it. Suddenly the 
remembrance of something came back to her, bring- 
ing with it an anxious thought and a vague dread. 
She was determined, however, just then to see no 
dark clouds in the horizon and nothing threatening 
in the future. Chasing all this from her mind, she 
began to think of her brother and of Noemi once 
more. She pictured to herself the wedding-day and 

232 



Renee Mauperin 



their future home, and she recalled the voices of 
some children she had once heard calling "Auntie! 
Auntie! " 

" Will mademoiselle do me the honour of dancing 
with me? " 

It was Denoisel who was bowing in front of her. 

" Do we dance together — you and I? We know 
each other too well. Sit down there, and don't crease 
my dress. Well, what are you looking at? " 

Renee was wearing a dress of white tulle, trimmed 
with seven narrow flounces and bunches of ivy leaves 
and red berries. In her bodice and the tulle ruches 
of her sleeves she wore ivy and berries to match. A 
long spray of the ivy was twisted round her hair with 
a few berries here and there and the leaves hung 
down over her shoulders. She was leaning her head 
back on the sofa, and her beautiful chestnut hair, which 
was brought forward, fell slightly over her white fore- 
head. There was a new gleam, a soft intense light 
in her brown, dreamy eyes, the expression of which 
could not be seen. A shadow played over her mouth 
at the corners, and her lips, which were generally 
closed in a disdainful little pout, were unsealed and 
half open, partially revealing the gladness which came 
from her very soul. The light fell on her chin, and a 
ring of shadow played round her neck each time that 
she moved her head. She looked charming thus, the 
outline of her features indistinct under the full light 

233 



Renee Mauperin 

of the chandeliers, and her whole face beaming with 
childish joy. 

" You are very pretty this evening, Renee." 

" Ah — this evening? " 

" Well, to tell the truth, just lately you've looked 
so worried and so sad. It suits you much better to 
enjoy yourself." 

" Do you think so? Do you waltz? " 

" As though I had just learnt and had been badly 
taught. But you have only this very minute re- 
fused." 

"I, refused? What an idea! Why, I want to 
dance dreadfully. Well, there's plenty of time — 
oh, don't look at your watch; I don't want to know 
the time. And so you think I am gay, do you? 
Well, no, I don't feel gay. I'm happy — I'm very 
happy — there, now! I say, Denoisel, when you are 
strolling about in Paris, you know those old women 
who wear Lorraine caps, and who stand in the door- 
ways selling matches — well, you are to give a sov- 
ereign each to the first five you meet; I'll give it 
you back. I've saved some money — don't forget. 
Is that waltz still going on? Is it really true that I 
refused to dance? Well, after this one I'm going to 
dance everything, and I shall not be particular about 
my partners. They can be as ugly as they like, they 
can wear shoes that have been resoled, and talk to 
me about Royer-Collard if they like, they can be 

234 



Renee Mauperin 



too tall or too short, they can come up to my elbow 
or I can come up to their waist — it won't matter to 
me even if their hands perspire — I'll dance with any 
of them. That's how I feel to-night, and yet people 
say that I am not charitable." 

Just at that moment a man entered the little 
drawing-room. It was M. Davarande. 

" Invite me for this waltz, please," said Renee, 
and as she passed by Denoisel she whispered: 

' You see I'm beginning with the family." 



235 



XXXIII 

" What's the matter with your mother this even- 
ing? " Denoisel asked Renee. They were alone, as 
Mme. Mauperin had just gone upstairs to bed, and 
M. Mauperin to have a look round at the works, 
which were on late that night. 

" What's the matter with her, she seems as " 

" Surly as a bulldog — say it out." 

" Well, but what's it all about? " 

" Ah, that's just it," and Renee began to laugh. 
" The fact is I've just lost a chance of being married 
— and so here I am still." 

"Another? But then that's your speciality! " 

" Oh, this is only the fourteenth. That's only an 
average number; and it's all through you that I've 
lost this chance." 

" Through me? Well, I never! What do you 
mean? " 

Renee got up, put her hands in her pockets, and 
walked up and down the room from one end to 
the other. Every now and then she stopped short, 
turned round on one heel, and gave a sort of whistle. 

236 



Renee Mauperin 



'Yes, through you!" she said, coming back to 
Denoisel. " What should you think if I told you 
that I had refused eighty thousand pounds? " 

" They must have been astonished." 

" I can't say that I wasn't rather tempted. It's 
no good setting up for being better than I am; and 
then, too, with you I don't make any pretences. 
Well, I'll own that just for a minute I was very nearly 
caught. It was M. Barousse who arranged it all — 
very nicely indeed. Then, here at home, they worked 
me up to it; mamma and Henri besieged me; I was 
bored to death about it all day long. And then, too, 
quite exceptionally for me, I began to have fancies, 
too. Anyhow, it is quite certain that I slept very 
badly two nights. These big fortunes do keep you 
awake. Then, too, to be quite just, I must say that 
I thought a great deal about papa in the midst of it 
all. Wouldn't he have been proud — wouldn't he, 
now? Wouldn't he have revelled in my four thou- 
sand a year? He has so much vanity always where 
I am concerned. Do you remember his indignation 
and wrath that time? 'A son-in-law who would 
allow my daughter to get in an omnibus! ' He was 
superb, wasn't he? Then I began to think of you — 
yes, of you — and your ideas, your paradoxes, your 
theories, of all sorts of things you had said to me; I 
thought of your contempt for money, and as I 
thought of it — well, I suppose it is catching, for I felt 

237 



Renee Mauperin 

the same contempt myself. And so all at once, one 
fine morning, I just cut it all short. No, you influ- 
ence me too much, my dear boy, decidedly." 

" Well, but I'm— I'm an idiot, Renee. Oh, I'm so 
sorry. I — I thought that sort of thing was not catch- 
ing — indeed I did. Come, really now, was it my 
fault? " 

" Yes, yours — in a great measure — and then just 
a little his fault, too." 

"Ah!" 

" Yes, it was just a little M. Lemeunier's. When 
I felt the money getting into my head, when I was 
seriously thinking of marrying him, why, I just 
looked at him. And you didn't know you were 
speaking so truly the other day. I suddenly felt that 
I was a woman — oh, youVe no idea what it was 
like. Then on the other hand I saw how good he 
was. Oh, he really is goodness itself. I tried him 
in every way, I turned him inside out, it worried 
me to find him so perfect; but it was no use, there 
was no fault to find in him. He is thoroughly 
good, that man is. Oh, he's quite different from 
Reverchon and the others. Only fancy what he 
said to me: 'Mademoiselle/ he said, 'I know that 
you don't care for me, but will you let me wait 
a little and see if you can dislike me less than you 
do now? ' It was quite pathetic. Sometimes I 
felt inclined to say to him: 'Suppose we were to 

238 



Renee Mauperin 



sit down and cry a little together, shall we? ' For- 
tunately, when he made me feel inclined to cry, papa, 
on the other hand, made me want to laugh. He 
looked so funny, my dear old father, half gay and 
half sad. I never saw such a resigned kind of happi- 
ness. The sadness of losing me, and the thought of 
seeing me make a good match made him feel so 
mixed up. Well, it's all finished now, thank Heaven! 
He makes great eyes at me as though he's angry — 
didn't you notice, when mamma was looking at us? 
But he is not angry at all in reality. He's very glad 
in his heart; I can see that." 



239 



XXXIV 

Denoisel was at Henri Mauperin's. They were 
sitting by the fire talking and smoking. Suddenly 
they heard a noise and a discussion in the hall, and, 
almost at the same time, the room door was opened 
violently and a man entered abruptly, pushing aside 
the domestic who was trying to keep him back. 

" M. Mauperin de Villacourt? " he demanded. 

" That is my name, monsieur," said Henri, rising. 

" Well, my name is Boisjorand de Villacourt," 
and with the back of his hand he gave Henri a blow 
which made his face bleed. Henri turned as white 
as the silk scarf he was wearing as a necktie and, 
with the blood trickling down his face, he bent for- 
ward to return the blow, and then, just as suddenly, 
drew himself up and stretched his hand out towards 
Denoisel, who stepped forward, folded his arms, and 
spoke in his calmest tone: 

" I think I understand what you mean, sir," he 
said; "you consider that there is a Villacourt too 
many. I think so too." 

The visitor was visibly embarrassed before the 
calmness of this man of the world. He took off his 

240 



Renee Mauperin 



hat, which he had kept on his head hitherto, and 
began to stammer out a few words. 

" Will you kindly leave your address with my 
servant? " said Henri, interrupting him; " I will send 
round to you to-morrow." 

" A disagreeable affair," began Henri, when he 
was once more alone with Denoisel. " Where can 
he have sprung from, this Villacourt? They told me 
that there were none of them left. Ah, my face is 
bleeding," he said, wiping it with his handkerchief. 
" He's a regular buffalo. Georges, bring some 
water," he called out to his domestic. 

" You'll choose the sword, shall you not? " asked 
Denoisel. " Hand me a stick. Now listen — you 
must be on guard from the first, and strike out very 
little. That man's one of the bloodthirsty sort; he'll 
go straight for you, and you must defend yourself 
with circular parries. When you are hard pressed 
and he rushes headlong at you, move aside to the 
right with the left foot, turn round on tip-toes on 
your right foot — like that. He'll have nothing in 
front of him then, and you'll have him from the side 
and can run him through like a frog." 

" No," said Henri, lifting his face from the basin, 
in which he was sponging it, " not the sword." 

" But, my dear fellow, that man is evidently a 
sportsman; he'll be accustomed to fire-arms." 
16 241 



Renee Mauperin 



" My dear fellow, there are certain situations 
which are most awkward. I've taken another name, 
and that's always ridiculous. Here's a man who ac- 
cuses me of having stolen it from him. I have ene- 
mies, and a good number of them, too; they'll make 
a scandal with all this. I must kill this fellow, that's 
very evident; it's the only way to make my position 
good. I should put an end to everything by that, 
lawsuits, and all the stories and gossip — everything. 
The -sword would not serve my purpose. With the 
sword you can kill a man who has been five years at 
it, who can use it, and who keeps his body in the 
positions you have been accustomed to. But a man 
who has had no sword practice, who jumps and 
dances about, who flourishes it about like a stick; 
I should wound him, and that would be all. Now 
with the pistol — I'm a good shot, you know. You 
must do me the justice of admitting that I was wise 
in my choice of accomplishments. And my idea is 
to put it there," he touched Denoisel as he spoke just 
above the hip, " just there, you see. Higher up, it's 
no good, the arm is there to ward it off; but here, 
why there are a lot of very necessary organs; there's 
the bladder, for instance; now if you are lucky 
enough to hit that, and if it should happen to be full, 
why it would be a case of peritonitis. And you'll get 
the pistol for me. A duel — without a fuss, you under- 
stand. I want it kept quite secret, so that no one 

242 



Renee Mauperin 



shall hear of it beforehand. Whom shall you take 
with you? " 

" Suppose I asked Dardouillet? He served in the 
National Guard, in the cavalry; I shall have to appeal 
to his military instincts." 

"That's the very thing, good! Will you call in 
and see mother first. Tell her that I cannot come 
before Thursday. It would be awkward if she hap- 
pened to drop in on us just the next day or two. I 
shall not go out; I'll have a bath and get a little more 
presentable. This mark doesn't show very much 
now, does it? I shall send out for dinner, and then 
spend the evening writing two or three necessary let- 
ters. By-the-bye, if you see the gentleman to-mor- 
row morning, why not have it out in the afternoon at 
four o'clock? It's just as well to get it over. To- 
morrow you'll find me here all the day — or else I shall 
be at the shooting gallery. Arrange things as you 
would for yourself, and thanks for all your trouble, old 
man. Four o'clock, then — if possible." 



243 



XXXV 

The name of the farm that Henri Mauperin had 
added to his surname to make it sound more aristo- 
cratic happened, by a strange chance, such as some- 
times occurs, to be the name of an estate in Lorraine 
and of a family, illustrious in former days, but at 
present so completely forgotten that every one be- 
lieved it had died out. 

The man who had just dealt Henri this blow was 
the last of those Villacourts who took their name 
from the domain and chateau of Villacourt, situated 
some three leagues from Saint-Mihiel, and owned by 
them from time immemorial. 

In 1303 Ulrich de Villacourt was one of the three 
lords who set their seal to the will of Ferry, Duke of 
Lorraine, by order of that prince. Under Charles the 
Bold, Gantonnet de Villacourt, who had been taken 
prisoner by the Messinians, only regained his liberty 
by giving his word never to mount a battle-horse, nor 
to carry military weapons again. From that time 
forth he rode a mule, arrayed himself in buffalo-skin, 
carried a heavy iron bar, and returned to the fight 

244 



Renee Mauperin 



bolder and more terrible than ever. Maheu de Villa- 
court married Gigonne de Malain and afterward 
Christine de Gliseneuve. His marble statue, between 
his two wives, was to be seen before the Revolution 
in the Church of the Grey Friars at Saint-Mihiel. 
Duke Rene allowed him to take eight hundred florins 
from the town of Ligny for the ransom that he had 
had to pay after the disastrous battle of Bulgneville. 

Remade de Villacourt, Maheu's son, was killed 
in 1476, in the battle waged by Duke Rene before 
Nancy against Charles the Daring. Hubert de Villa- 
court, Remacle's sons, Seneschal of Barrois and Bailiff 
of Bassigny, followed Duke Antoine as standard- 
bearer in the Alsatian war, while his brother Bona- 
venture, a monk of the strict order of Saint-Frangojs, 
was made three times over the triennial Superior of 
his order, and confessor of Antoine and Frangois, 
Dukes of Lorraine; and one of his sisters, Salmone, 
was appointed Abbess of Sainte Glossinde of Metz. 

Jean-Marie de Villacourt served in the French 
army, and after the Landrecies day, the king made 
him a knight and embraced him. He was afterward 
captain of three hundred foot soldiers and Equerry 
of the King's stables, and was then appointed to the 
captaincy of Vaucouleurs and made Governor of 
Langres. He had married a sister of Jean de Cha- 
ligny, the celebrated gun-founder of Lorraine, who 
cast the famous culverin, twenty-two feet high. His 

245 



Renee Mauperin 



brother Philibert was a cavalry captain under Charles 
IX. His brother Gaston made himself famous by his 
duels. It was he who killed Captain Chambrulard, 
with two sword-strokes, before four thousand persons 
assembled at the back of the Chartreux in Paris. 
Jean-Marie had another brother, Angus, who was 
Canon of Toul and Archdeacon of Tonnerrois, and a 
sister, Archange, who was Abbess of Saint-Maur, 
Verdun. 

Then came Guillaume de Villacourt, who fought 
against Louis XIII. He was obliged to surrender 
with Charles de Lenoncourt, who was defending the 
town of Saint-Mihiel, and he shared his four years' 
captivity in the Bastille. His son, Mathias de Villa- 
court, married in 1656 Marie Dieudonnee, a daughter 
of Claude de Jeandelincourt, who opened the salt 
mine of Chateau-Salins. Mathias had fourteen chil- 
dren, ten of whom were killed in the service of Louis 
XIV: Charles, captain of the regiment of the Pont, 
killed in the siege of Philisbourg; Jean, killed in the 
battle of Nerwinde; Antoine, captain of the regiment 
of Normandie, killed in the siege of Fontarabie; Jac- 
ques, killed in the siege of Bellegarde, where he had 
gone by permission of the king; Philippe, captain of 
the grenadiers in the Dauphin's regiment, killed in 
the battle of Marsaille; Thibaut, captain in the same 
regiment, killed in the battle of Hochstett; Pierre- 
Frangois, commander in the Lyonnais regiment, 

246 



Renee Mauperin 



killed in the battle of Fleurus; Claude-Marie, com- 
mander in the Perigord regiment, killed in the pas- 
sage of the Hogue; Edme, lieutenant in his brother's 
company, killed at his side in the same affair, and 
Gerard, Knight of the Order of Saint-Jean of Jeru- 
salem, killed in 1700, in a conflict between four gal- 
leys of Christians and a Turkish man-of-war. Of the 
three daughters of Charles-Mathias, Lydie married 
the Seigneur de Majastre, Governor of Epinal, and 
the other two, Berthe and Phoebe, died unmarried. 

The eldest of the sons of Charles-Mathias, Louis- 
Aime de Villacourt, who served eighteen years and 
retired from service after the battle of Malplaquet, 
died in 1702. His son left Villacourt, settled down 
in Paris, threw himself into the life of the capital, 
and so got rid of the remainder of a fortune which 
had already been encroached upon by the loss of a 
lawsuit between his father and the d'Haraucourts. 
He endeavoured to recover his losses at the gaming- 
table, got into debt, and returned to Villacourt with 
a wife from Carrouge who had kept a gambling 
house in Paris. He died in 1752, owning very 
little besides the walls of the chateau, and leaving 
a name less famous and less honourable than his 
father's had been. He had two children by his mar- 
riage, a daughter and a son. The daughter became 
maid of honour to the Empress-Queen, the son re- 
mained at Villacourt, leading a low, coarse life as a 

247 



Renee Mauperin 



country gentleman. On the abolition of privileges 
in 1790 he gave up his rank and lived on a friendly 
and equal footing with the peasants until he died in 
1792. His son Jean, lieutenant in the regiment of 
the Royal-Liegeois in 1787, was in the Nancy affair. 
He emigrated, went through the campaigns of 1792 
to 1801 in Mirabeau's legion, which was then com- 
manded by Roger de Damas, and in the Bourbon 
grenadiers in Conde's army. On the thirteenth of 
August, 1796, he was wounded on the head in the 
Oberkamlach battle. In 1802 he returned to France, 
bringing with him a wife he had married in Ger- 
many, who died after bearing him four children, four 
sons. He had become weak in intellect, almost child- 
ish in fact, from the result of his wound, and after 
his wife's death there was no one to regulate the 
household expenses. Disorder gradually crept in, he 
kept open table and took to drinking, until at last 
he was obliged to sell what little land he had round 
the chateau. Finally the chateau itself began to 
crumble away. He could not have it repaired, as he 
had no money to pay the workmen. The wind could 
be felt through the cracks, and the rain came in. The 
family were obliged to give up one room after an- 
other, taking refuge where the roof was still sound. 
He himself was indifferent to all this; after drinking 
two or three glasses of brandy he would take his seat 
in what used to be the kitchen garden, on a stone 

248 



«*-. 



Renee Mauperin 

bench near a meridian, the figures of which had worn 
away, and there he would get quite cheerful in the 
sunshine, calling to people over the hedge to come 
in and drink with him. Decay and poverty, how- 
ever, made rapid strides in the chateau. There was 
nothing left of all the old silver but a salad-bowl, 
which was used for the food of a horse called 
Brouska, that the exile had brought with him from 
Germany, and which was now allowed to roam in 
liberty through the rooms on the ground-floor. 

The four sons grew up as the chateau went to 
decay, accustomed to wind, rain, and roughing it. 
They were entirely neglected and abandoned by their 
father, and their only education consisted of a few 
lessons from the parish priest. From living like the 
peasants, and mixing with them in their work and 
games, they gradually became regular peasants them- 
selves, and the roughest and strongest in the country 
round. When their father died the four brothers, 
by common consent, made over to a land agent the 
remaining stones of their chateau in return for a 
few pounds, with which to pay their most pressing 
debts, and an annuity of twenty pounds, which was 
to be paid until the death of the last of the four. 
They then took up their abode in the forest, which 
joined their estate, and lived there with the wood- 
cutters and in the same way as they did, making a 
regular den of their hut, and living there with their 

249 



Renee Mauperin 



sweethearts or wives, peopling the forest with a half- 
bred race, in which the Villacourts were crossed with 
nature, noblemen mated with children of the forest, 
whose language, even, was no longer French. Some 
of Jean de Villacourt's old comrades in arms had tried, 
on his death, to do something for his children. They 
were interested in this name, which had been so great 
and had now fallen so low. In 1826 the youngest of 
the boys, who was scarcely more than sixteen, was 
brought to Paris. The little savage was clothed and 
presented to the Duchesse d'Angouleme: he appeared 
three or four times in the salons of the Minister of 
War, who was related to his family, and who was very 
anxious to do something for him; but at the end of 
a week, feeling stifled in these drawing-rooms, and ill 
at ease in his clothes, he had escaped like a little wolf, 
gone straight back to his hiding-place, and had not 
come out of it again for years. 

Of these four Villacourts, he was the only one left 
at the end of twenty years. His three brothers died 
one after the other, and all by violent deaths; one 
from drunkenness, the second from illness, and the 
other from blows he had received in a skirmish. All 
three had been struck down suddenly, snatched as it 
were from the midst of life. Living among the bas- 
tards they had left, this last of the Villacourts was 
looked up to in the forest as the chieftain of a clan 
until 1854, when the game laws came into force. All 

250 



Renee Mauperin 



the regulations and the supervision, the trials, fines, 
confiscations, and liabilities connected with the chase, 
which had now become his very life, and the fear of 
giving way to his anger some day and of putting a 
bullet into one of the keepers, disgusted him with 
this part of the world, with France, and with this land 
which was no longer his own. 

It occurred to him to go to America in order to 
be quite free, and to be able to hunt in untrodden 
fields where no gun license was necessary. He went 
to Paris to set sail from Havre, but he had not 
enough money for the voyage. He then fell back on 
Africa, but there he found a second France with laws, 
gendarmes, and forest-keepers. He tried working a 
grant of land, and then a clearing, but that kind of 
labour did not suit him. The country and the climate 
tried him, and the burning heat of the sun and soil 
began to take effect on his robust health. At the end 
of two years he returned to France. 

On going back to his log-hut at Motte-Noire he 
found a newspaper there, the only thing which had 
come for him during his absence. It was a number 
of the Moniteur and was more than a year old. He 
tore it up to light his pipe, and, just as he was twist- 
ing it, caught sight of a red-pencil mark. He opened 
it out again and read the marked paragraph: 

" M. Mauperin {Alfred-Henri), better known by 
the name of Villaconrt, is about to apply to the 

251 



Renee Mauperin 



Keeper of the Seals for permission to add to his 
name that of Villacourt, and will henceforth be 
known as Mauperin de Villacourt." 

He got up, walked about, fumed, then sat down 
again, and slowly lighted his pipe. 

Three days later he was in Paris. 

Just at first on reading the paper he had felt as 
though some one had struck him across the face with 
a horsewhip. Then he had said to himself that he 
was robbed of his name, but that was all, that his 
name was no longer worth anything, as it was now 
the name of a beggar. This philosophizing mood 
did not last long, the thought of the theft of his name 
gradually came back to him, and it irritated and hurt 
him, and made him feel bitter. After all he had noth- 
ing left but this name, and he could not endure the 
idea of having it stolen from him, and so started for 
Paris. 

On arriving he was as furious as a mad bull, and 
his one idea was to go and knock this M. Mauperin 
down at once. When once he was in the capital, 
though, with its streets and its crowds, face to face 
with its people, its shops, its life, all the passers-by, 
and the noise, he felt dazed, like some wild beast let 
loose in a huge circus, whose rage is suddenly turned 
into fright and who stops short after its first leap. 
He went straight to the law courts, and in the long 
hall accosted one of those men in black, who are gen- 

252 



Renee Mauperin 



erally leaning against a pillar, and told him what had 
happened. The man in black informed him that as 
the year's delay had expired there was nothing to be 
done but appeal to the high court against the decree 
authorizing the addition of the name, and he gave 
him the address of a counsel of the higher court. M. 
de Villacourt hurried to this counsel. He found a 
very cold, polite man, wearing a white necktie, who, 
while leaning back in a green morocco chair, listened 
with a fixed expression in his eyes all the time to his 
case, his claims, his rights, his indignation, and to the 
sound of the parchments he was turning over with a 
nervous hand. 

The expression of the counsel's face never 
changed, so that when M. de Villacourt had finished 
he fancied that the other man had not understood, 
and he began all over again. The lawyer stopped him 
with a gesture, saying: " I think you will gain your 
case, monsieur." 

"You think so? Do you mean to say you are 
not sure of it? " 

"A lawsuit is always a lawsuit, monsieur," an- 
swered the lawyer with a faint smile, which was so 
sceptical that it chilled M. de Villacourt, who was just 
prepared to burst out in a rage. " The chances are 
on your side, though, and I am quite willing to under- 
take your case." 

" Here you are then," said M. de Villacourt, put- 
253 



Renee Mauperin 



ting his roll of title-deeds down on the desk. " Thank 
you, sir," he added, rising to take his leave. 

" Excuse me/' said the lawyer on seeing him walk 
towards the door, " but I must call your attention to 
the fact that in business of this kind, in an appeal 
to the higher court, we do not only act as the barris- 
ter but as the lawyer of our client. There are certain 
expenses, for getting information and examining 
deeds — If I take up your case I shall be obliged to 
ask you to cover these expenses. Oh, it is only a 
matter of from twenty to twenty-five pounds. Let us 
say twenty pounds." 

"Twenty to twenty-five pounds! Why, what do 
you mean! " exclaimed M. de Villacourt, turning red 
with indignation. " Some one steals my name, and 
because I have not seen the newspaper in which the 
man warns me that he intends robbing me, I must 
pay twenty-five pounds to make this rascal give up 
my name again. Twenty to twenty-five pounds! 
But I haven't the money, sir," he said, lowering his 
head and letting his arms fall down at his sides. 

" I am extremely sorry, monsieur, but this little 
formality is indispensable. Oh, you must be able to 
find it. I feel sure that among the relatives of the 
families into which your family has married — in such 
questions as these, families are always ready to pull 
together." 

" I do not know any one — and the Count de Vil- 
254 



Renee Mauperin 



lacourt will never ask for money. I had just twelve 
pounds when I arrived. I bought this coat for about 
two pounds at the Palais Royal on the way here. 
This hat cost me five and tenpence. I suppose my 
hotel bill will cost me about a sovereign, and I shall 
want about a sovereign to get back home. Could 
you do with what is left? " 

" I am very sorry, monsieur " 

M. de Villacourt put his hat on and left the room. 
At the hall-door he suddenly turned round, passed 
through the dining-room and opening the office- 
door again, he said, in a smothered voice which he was 
doing his utmost to control: 

" Can I have the address of M. Henri Mauperin 
— known as de Villacourt — without paying for it? " 

" Certainly; he is a barrister. I shall find his ad- 
dress in this book. Here it is; Rue Taitbout — 14." 

It was after all this that M. de Villacourt had hur- 
ried away to Henri Mauperin's. 



255 



XXXVI 

When Denoisel entered the Mauperins' drawing- 
room that evening he found every one more gay and 
cheerful than usual. There was a look of happiness 
on "all the faces; M. Mauperin's good-humour could 
be guessed by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 
Mme. Mauperin was most gracious, she positively 
beamed and looked blissfully happy. Renee was flit- 
ting about the room, and her quick, girlish move- 
ments were so bird-like that one could almost imagine 
the sound of a bird's wings. 

"Why, here's Denoisel!" exclaimed M. Mau- 
perin. 

" Good-evening, m'sieu," said Renee, in a play- 
ful tone. 

" You haven't brought Henri with you? " asked 
Mme. Mauperin. 

" He couldn't come. He'll be here the day after 
to-morrow without fail." 

" How nice of you! Oh, isn't he a good boy to 
have come this evening," said Renee, hovering round 
and trying to make him laugh as though he had been 
a child. 

256 



Renee Mauperin 



" Oh, he's a bad lot! Ah, my dear fellow — " and 
M. Mauperin shook hands and winked at his wife. 

" Yes; just come here, Denoisel," said Mme. Mau- 
perin. " Come and sit down and confess your sins. 
It appears that you were seen the other day in the 
Bois— driving " 

She stopped a minute like a cat when it is drink- 
ing milk. 

"Ah, now your mother's wound up!" said M. 
Mauperin to Renee. " She's in very good spirits 
to-day — my wife is. I warn you, Denoisel." 

Mme. Mauperin had lowered her voice. Leaning 
forward towards Denoisel she was telling him a very 
lively story. The others could only catch a word 
here and there between smothered bursts of laughter. 

" Mamma, it's not allowed; that sort of thing — 
laughing all to yourselves. Give me back my De- 
noisel, or I'll tell stories like yours to papa." 

"Oh, dear, wasn't it absurd!" said Mme. Mau- 
perin, when she had finished her bit of gossip, laugh- 
ing heartily as old ladies do over a spicy tale. 

" How very lively you all are this evening! " ex- 
claimed Denoisel, chilled by all this gaiety. 

" Yes, we are as gay as Pinchon," said Renee, 
"that's how we all feel! And we shall be like this 
to-morrow, and the day after, and always; shall we 
not, papa? " and running across to her father she sat 
down on his knees like a child. 
17 257 



Renee Mauperin 



" My darling! " said M. Mauperin to his daughter. 
" Well, I never! Just look, my dear, do you remem- 
ber? This was her knee when she was a little girl." 

" Yes," said Mme. Mauperin, " and Henri had the 
other one." 

" Yes, I can see them now," continued M. Mau- 
perin; " Henri was the girl and you were the boy, 
Renee. Just to fancy that all that was fifteen years 
ago. It used to amuse you finely when I let you put 
your little hands on the scars that my wounds had 
left. What rascals of children they were! How they 
laughed!" Then turning to his wife he added, 
" What work you had with them, my dear. It 
doesn't matter though, Denoisel; it's a good thing 
to have a family. Instead of only having one heart, 
it's as though you have several — upon my word 
it is!" 

" Ah, Denoisel, now that you are here, we shall 
not let you go again," said Renee. " Your room has 
been waiting for you long enough." 

" I'm so sorry, Renee, but really I have some 
business to attend to this evening in Paris; I have, 
really." 

"Oh, business! You? How important you 
must feel, to be sure! " 

" Do stay, Denoisel," said M. Mauperin. " My 
wife has a whole collection of stories for you like the 
one she has just told you." 

258 



Renee Mauperin 

" Oh yes, do, will you? " pleaded Renee. " We'll 
have such fun; you'll see. I won't touch the piano 
at all, and I won't put too much vinegar in the salad. 
We'll make puns on everything. Come now, De- 
noisel." 

" I accept your invitation for next week." 

" Horrid thing! " and Renee turned her back 
on him. 

" And Dardouillet," said Denoisel; " isn't he com- 
ing this evening? " 

" Oh, he'll come later on," said Mauperin. " By- 
the-bye, it's just possible he won't come, though. 
He's very busy — in the very thick of marking out his 
land. I fancy he's just busy transporting his moun- 
tain into his lake and his lake on to the top of his 
mountain." 

" Well, but what about this evening? " 

" Oh, this evening — no one knows," said Renee. 
" He's full of mysteries, M. Dardouillet. But how 
queer you look to-day, Denoisel! " 

" I do? " 

"Yes, you; you don't seem at all frolicsome; 
there's no sparkle about you. What's been ruffling 
you? " 

" Denoisel, there's something the matter," said 
Mme. Mauperin. 

" Nothing whatever, madame," answered Denoi- 
sel. " What could be the matter with me? I'm not 

259 



Renee Mauperin 



low-spirited in the least. I'm simply tired; I've had 
to rush about so much this last week for Henri. He 
would have my opinion about everything in connec- 
tion with his furnishing." 

" Ah yes," said Mme. Mauperin, her face lighting 
up with joy; " it's true, the twenty-second is getting 
near. Oh, if any one had told me this two years ago! 
I'm afraid I shall be too happy to live on that day. 
Just think of it, my dear," and she half closed her eyes 
and revelled in her dreams of the future. 

" I shall be simply lovely for the occasion, I can 
tell you, Denoisel," said Renee. " I have had my 
dress tried on to-day, and it fits me to perfection. 
But, papa, what about a dress-coat? " 

" My old dress-coat is quite new." 

" Oh, but you must have one made, a newer one 
still, if I'm to take your arm. Oh, how silly I am; 
you won't take me in, of course. Denoisel, please 
keep a quadrille for me. We shall give a ball, of 
course, mamma? " 

" A ball and everything that we can give," said 
Mme. Mauperin. " I expect people will think it is 
not quite the thing; but I can't help that. I want it 
to be very festive — as it was for our wedding, do you 
remember, my dear? We'll dance and eat and drink, 
and " 

"Yes, that's what we'll do," said Renee, "and 
we'll let all our workpeople drink till they are quite 

260 



Renee Mauperin 



merry — Denoisel too. It will liven him up a little 
to have too much to drink." 

" Well, with all this, I don't fancy Dardouillet's 
coming " 

" What in the world makes you so anxious to see 
Dardouillet, this evening? " asked M. Mauperin. 

" Yes, that's true," put in Renee. " That hasn't 
been explained. Please explain, Denoisel." 

" How inquisitive you are, Renee. It's just a 
bit of nonsense — nothing that matters. I want him 
to lend me his bulldog for a rat-fight at my club 
to-morrow. I've made a bet that he'll kill a hundred 
in two minutes. And with that I must depart. 
Good-night, all!" 

"Good-night!" 

" Then, my boy will be here the day after to- 
morrow, for sure? " said Mme. Mauperin at the door 
to Denoisel. 

Denoisel nodded without answering. 



261 



XXXVII 

On arriving at Dardouillet's little house at the 
other end of the village, Denoisel rang the bell. An 
old woman opened the door. 

" Has M. Dardouillet gone to bed? " 

"Gone to bed? No, indeed! A nice life he 
leads!" answered the old servant; "he's pottering 
about in the garden; you'll find him there," and she 
opened the long window of the dining-room. 

The bright moonlight fell on a garden absolutely 
bare, as square as a handkerchief, and with the soil 
all turned over like a field. In one corner, standing 
motionless and with folded arms, on a hillock, was a 
black figure which looked like a spectre in one of 
Biard's pictures. It was M. Dardouillet, and he was 
so deeply absorbed that he did not see his visitor 
until Denoisel was quite close to him. 

"Ah, it's you, M. Denoisel? I'm delighted to 
see you. Just look now," and he pointed to the loose 
soil all round. " What do you think of that? Plenty 
of lines there, I hope; and it's all quite soft and loose, 
you know," and he put his hand out over the plan 

262 



Renee Mauperin 



of his rising ground as though he were stroking the 
brow of his ideal hill. 

" Excuse me, M. Dardouillet," said Denoisel. 
" I've come about an affair that " 

" Moonlight — remember that — if ever you have a 
garden — there's nothing like moonlight for seeing 
what you have done — exactly as it is. By daylight 
you can't see the embankments " 

" M. Dardouillet, I want to appeal to a man who 
has worn a soldier's uniform. You are a friend of 
the Mauperins. I have come to ask you if you will 
act for Henri as " 

" A duel? " And Dardouillet fastened up the 
black coat he wore, winter and summer alike, with all 
that was left of the button. " Good heavens! Yes, 
a service of that kind is a duty." 

" I shall take you back with me, then," said 
Denoisel, putting his arm through Dardouillet's. 
" You can sleep at my place. It must be settled 
quickly. It will be all over to-morrow, or the day 
after at the latest." 

" Good! " said Dardouillet, looking regretfully at 
a line of stakes that had been commenced, the shad- 
ows of which the moon threw on the ground. 



263 



XXXVIII 

On leaving Henri Mauperin's, M. de Villacourt 
had suddenly recollected that he had no friends, no 
one at all whom he could ask to serve as seconds. 
This had not occurred to him before. He remem- 
bered two or three names which had been mixed up 
in his father's family history, and he went along the 
streets trying to find the houses where he had been 
taken when he had come to Paris in his boyhood. 
He rang at several doors, but either the people were 
no longer living there or they were not at home 
to him. 

At night he returned to his lodging-house. He 
had never before felt so absolutely alone in the world. 
When he was taking the key of his bed-room, the 
landlady asked him if he would not have a glass of 
beer and, opening a door in a passage, showed him 
into a cafe which took up the ground-floor of the 
house. 

Some swords were hanging from the hat-pegs, 
with cocked hats over them. At the far end, through 
the tobacco smoke, he could see men dressed in 

264 



Renee Mauperin 



military uniform moving about round a billiard-table. 
A sickly looking boy with a white apron on was run- 
ning to and fro, scared and bewildered, giving the 
Army Monitor and the other papers a bath, each time 
that he put a glass or cup on the table. 

Near the counter, a drum-major was playing at 
backgammon with the landlord of the cafe in his shirt- 
sleeves. On every side voices could be heard calling 
out and answering each other, with the rolling accent 
peculiar to soldiers. 

" To-morrow I'm on duty at the theatre." 

" I take my week." 

" Gaberiau is beadle at Saint-Sulpice." 

" He was proposed and was to be examined." 

" Who's on service at the Bourdon ball? " 

" What an idea! to blow his brains out when he 
hadn't a single punishment down on his book! " 

It was very evident that they were the Paris 
Guards from the barracks, just near, waiting until nine 
o'clock for the roll-call. 

" Waiter, a bowl of punch and three glasses," said 
M. de Villacourt, taking his place at a table where 
two of the Guards were seated. 

When the punch was brought he filled the three 
glasses, pushed one before each of the Guards, and 
rose to his feet. 

"Your health, gentlemen!" he said, and then 
lifting his glass he continued: " You are military 

265 



Renee Mauperin 



men — I have to fight to-morrow, and I haven't any- 
one I can ask. I feel sure that you will act as sec- 
onds for me." 

One of the Guards looked full at M. de Villacourt, 
and then turned to his comrade. 

" We may as well, Gaillourdot; what do you say? " 
The other did not reply, but picking up his glass 
touched M. de Villacourt's with it. 

" Well then, to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. 
Room 2j" 

"Right!" answered the Guards. 

The following morning, just as Denoisel was start- 
ing with Dardouillet to call on M. Boisjorand de 
Villacourt, his door-bell rang and the two Guards 
entered. As their mission was to accept everything, 
terms, weapons, and distances, the arrangements for 
the duel were soon made. Pistols were decided upon 
at a distance of thirty-five paces, both adversaries 
to be allowed to walk ten paces. Denoisel requested, 
in Henri's name, that the affair should be got over 
as quickly as possible. This was precisely what M. 
de Villacourt's seconds were about to ask, as they 
were supposed to be going to the theatre that even- 
ing, and were only free that day until midnight. 
A meeting was fixed for four o'clock at the Ville- 
d'Avray Lake. Denoisel next went to one of his 

266 



Renee Mauperin 



friends who was a surgeon, and then to order a car- 
riage for bringing home the wounded man. He called 
to see Henri, who was out; then went on to the 
shooting-gallery, where he found him, amusing him- 
self with shooting at small bundles of matches hang- 
ing from a piece of string, at which he fired, setting 
the brimstone alight with the bullet. 

"Oh, that's nothing! " he said to Denoisel; "I 
fancy those matches get set on fire with the wind 
from the bullet; but look here! " and he showed him 
a cardboard target, in the first ring of which he had 
just put a dozen bullets. 

" It's to be to-day at four, as you wished," said 
Denoisel. 

" Good! " said Henri, giving his pistol to the man. 
" Look here," he continued, putting his fingers over 
two holes on the cardboard which were rather far 
away from the others; " if it were not for these two 
flukes this would be fit to frame. Oh, I'm glad it's 
arranged for to-day." He lifted his arm with the 
gesture of a man accustomed to shooting and just 
about to take aim, and then shook his hand about to 
get the blood into it again. 

" Only imagine," he continued, " that it had quite 
an effect on me — the idea of this affair — when I was 
in bed this morning. It's that deuced horizontal 
position; I don't fancy it's good for one's courage." 

They all lunched together at Denoisel's and then 
267 



Renee Mauperin 



proceeded to smoke. Henri was cheerful and com- 
municative, talking all the time. The surgeon ar- 
rived at the hour appointed, and they all four got 
into the carriage and drove off. 

They had been silent until they were about half 
way, when Henri suddenly threw his cigar out of the 
window impatiently. 

" Give me a cigar, Denoisel, a good one. It's 
very important to have a good cigar when you are 
going to shoot, you know. If you are to shoot prop- 
erly you mustn't be nervous; that's the principal 
thing. I took a bath this morning. One must keep 
calm. Now, driving is the most detestable thing; the 
reins saw your hand for you. I'd wager you couldn't 
shoot straight after driving; your fingers would be 
stiff. Novels are absurd with their duels, where the 
man arrives and flings his reins to his groom. What 
should you think if I told you that one ought to go 
in for a sort of training? It's quite true, though. I 
never knew such a good shot as an Englishman I 
once met; he goes to bed at eight o'clock; never 
drinks stimulants and takes a short walk every even- 
ing like my father does. Every time that I have 
driven in a carriage without springs to the shooting- 
gallery, my targets have shown it. By-the-bye, this 
is a very decent carriage, Denoisel. Well, with a 
cigar it's the same thing. Now a cigar that's difficult 
to smoke keeps you at work, you have to keep lift- 

268 



Renee Mauperin 



ing your hand to your mouth, and that makes your 
hand unsteady; while a good cigar — you ask any 
good shot, and he'll tell you the same thing — it's 
soothing, it puts your nerves in order. There's noth- 
ing better than the gentle movement of the arm as 
you take the cigar out of your mouth and put it in 
again. It's slow and regular." 

On arriving, they found M. de Villacourt and his 
seconds waiting between the two lakes. The ground 
was white with the snow that had fallen during the 
morning. In the woods the trees stretched their 
bare branches towards the sky, and in the distance 
the red sunset could be seen between the rows of 
dark trees. They walked as far as the Montalet road. 
The distances were measured, Denoisel's pistols 
loaded, and the opponents then took their places 
opposite each other. Two walking-sticks, laid on 
the snow, marked the limits of the ten paces they 
were each allowed. Denoisel walked with Henri to 
the place which had fallen to his lot, and as he was 
pushing down a corner of his collar for him which 
covered his necktie, Henri said in a low voice: 
" Thanks, old man; my heart's beating a trifle under 
my armpit, but you'll be satisfied " 

M. de Villacourt took off his frock-coat, tore off 
his necktie, and threw them both some distance from 
him. His shirt was open at the neck, showing his 

269 



Renee Mauperin 



strong, broad, hairy chest. The opponents were 
armed, and the seconds moved back and stood to- 
gether on one side. 

" Ready! " cried a voice. 

At this word M. de Villacourt moved forward 
almost in a straight line. Henri kept quite still and 
allowed him to walk five paces. At the sixth he fired. 

M. de Villacourt fell to the ground, and the wit- 
nesses watched him lay down his pistol and press his 
thumbs with all his strength on the double hole 
which the bullet had made on entering his body. 

" Ah! I'm not done for — Ready, monsieur! " he 
called out in a loud voice to Henri, who, thinking 
all was over, was moving away. 

M. de Villacourt picked up his pistol and pro- 
ceeded to do his four remaining paces as far as the 
walking-stick, dragging himself along on his hands 
and knees and leaving a track of blood on the snow 
behind him. On arriving at the stick he rested his 
elbow on the ground and took aim slowly and 
steadily. 

"Fire! Fire!" called out Dardouillet. 

Henri, standing still and covering his face with 
his pistol, was waiting. He was pale, and there was 
a proud, haughty look about him. The shot was 
fired; he staggered a second, then fell flat, with his 
face on the ground and with outstretched arms, his 
twitching fingers grasping for a moment at the SUQW* 

270 



m 



LESS* 




DRAGGING HIMSELF ALONG AND LEAVING A TRACK 
OF BLOOD ON THE SNOW BEHIND HIM 



aujf 









arm. 

irt moved 
kept quite 
the sixth hi 
he ground, and 
1 n his pistol and pre 
the doubi; 
I 
Ready, monsieur! ' 
o Henri, who, thin 

1 :: pistol and 
;ng paces as far 
on his 
of blood on the 

stick he re ■•: 
k aim slowly 

- 

Dardouillet 

-ring his face \ 
his p pale, a 

a pro him. The she 

fired; he stai /then fell 

face on the jth out^ 

ling finger: 



XXXIX 

M. Mauperin had gone out into the garden as 
he usually did on coming downstairs in the morning, 
when, to his surprise, he saw Denoisel advancing to 
meet him. 

" You here, at this hour? " he said. " Why, 
where did you sleep? " 

" M. Mauperin," said Denoisel, pressing his hand 
as he spoke. 

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked M. 
Mauperin, feeling that something had happened. 

" Henri is wounded." 

" Dangerously? Is it a duel? " 

Denoisel nodded. 

" Wounded? Ah, he is dead! " 

Denoisel took M. Mauperin's two hands in his 
for a second, without uttering a word. 

" Dead! " repeated M. Mauperin mechanically, and 
he opened his hands as though something had slipped 
from their grasp. "His poor mother, Henri!" and 
the tears came with the words. " Oh, God — We 
don't know how much we love them till this comes — 

271 



Renee Mauperin 



and only thirty years old! " He sank down on a gar- 
den-seat, choked with sobs. 

" Where is he? " he asked at last. 

" There," and Denoisel pointed to the window of 
Henri's room. 

From Ville-d'Avray he had taken the corpse 
straight to M. Dardouillet's, and during the evening 
had found a pretext for sending for M. Bernard, who 
had a key of the Mauperins' house. In the middle 
of the night, while the family were asleep, the three 
men had taken off their shoes, carried Henri's dead 
body upstairs, and laid it on the bed in his own room. 

" Thank you," said M. Mauperin, and making a 
sign to him that he could not talk he got up. 

They walked round the garden four or five times 
in silence. The tears came every now and then into 
M. Mauperin's eyes, but they did not fall. Words, 
too, seemed to come to his lips and die away again. 
Finally, in a deep, crushed voice, breaking the long 
silence by a desperate effort, and not looking at 
Denoisel, M. Mauperin asked an abrupt question. 

" Was it an honourable death? " 

" He was your son," answered Denoisel. 

The father lifted his head at these words, as if 
strength had come to him with which to fight against 
his grief. " Well, well; I must do my duty now. You 
have done your part," and he drew Denoisel nearer 
to him, his tears falling freely at last. 

272 



XL 

" Murder is the name for affairs of this kind," 
M. Barousse was saying to Denoisel as they followed 
the hearse to the cemetery. " Why didn't you ar- 
range matters between them? " 

"After that blow?" 

" After or before," said M. Barousse, perempto- 
rily. 

" You'd better say that to his father! " 

" He's a soldier — but you, hang it all — you've 
never served in the army, and you let him get killed! 
I consider you killed him." 

" Look here, I've had enough, M. Barousse." 

"You see, I reason things out; I've been a mag- 
istrate." — Barousse had been a judge on the Board 
of Trade. — " You have the law courts and you can 
demand justice. But duels are contrary to all laws, 
human or divine; remember that. Why, just fancy 
— a scoundrel comes and gives me a blow in the face; 
and he must needs kill me as well. Ah, I can promise 
you one thing: if ever I'm on a jury, and there's a 
case of a duel — well, I look upon it as murder. Duel- 
?s 273 



Renee Mauperin 

lists are assassins. In the first place it's a cowardly 
thing " 

" A cowardly thing that every one hasn't the 
courage to carry through, M. Barousse; it's like sui- 
cide." 

" Ah, if you are going to uphold suicide," said 
Barousse, and leaving the discussion he continued in 
a softened tone: "Such a fine fellow too, poor 
Henri! And then Mauperin, and his wife, and his 
daughter — the whole family plunged into this grief. 
No, it makes me wild when I think of it. Why, I 
had known him all his life." Barousse pulled his 
watch half out of his waistcoat-pocket as he spoke. 
"There!" he said, breaking off suddenly; "I know 
it will be sold; I shall have missed The Concert, a su- 
perb proof, earlier than the one with the dedication." 

Denoisel returned to Briche with M. Mauperin, 
who, on arriving, went straight upstairs to his wife. 
He found her in bed, with the blinds down and the 
curtains drawn, overwhelmed and crushed by her 
terrible sorrow. 

Denoisel opened the drawing-room door and saw 
Renee, seated on an ottoman, sobbing, with her hand- 
kerchief up to her mouth. 

" Renee," he said, going to her and taking her 
hands in his, " some one killed him " 

Renee looked at him and then lowered her eyes. 
274 



Renee Mauperin 



" That man would never have known; he never 
read anything and he did not see any one; he lived 
like a regular wolf; he didn't subscribe to the Mon- 
iteur, of course. Do you understand? " 

" No," stammered Renee, trembling all over. 

" Well, it must have been an enemy who sent the 
paper to that man. Ah, you can't understand such 
cowardly things; but that's how it all came about, 
though. One of his seconds showed me the paper 
with the paragraph marked " 

Renee was standing up, her eyes wide open with 
terror; her lips moved and she opened her mouth to 
speak — to cry out: " I sent it! " 

Then all at once she put her hand to her heart, 
as if she had just been wounded there, and fell down 
unconscious and rigid on the carpet. 



275 



XLI 



Denoisel came every day to Briche to inquire 
about Renee. When she was a little better, he was 
surprised that she did not ask for him. He had 
always been accustomed to seeing her when she was 
not well, even when she was lying down, as though 
he had been one of the family. And whenever she 
had been ill, he was always one of the first she had 
asked for. She expected him to entertain and amuse 
her, to enliven her during her convalescence and bring 
back her laughter. He was offended and kept away 
for a day or two, and then when he came again he 
still could not see her. One day he was told that 
she was too tired, another day that the Abbe Blam- 
poix was talking to her. Finally, at the end of a 
week, he was allowed to see her. 

He expected an effusive welcome, such as invalids 
give their friends when they see them again for the 
first time. He thought that after an illness she would, 
in her impulsive way, be almost ready to embrace 
him. Renee held out her hand to him and just let 
her fingers lie in his for a second; she said a few words 

276 



Renee Mauperin 

such as she might have said to any one, and after about 
a quarter of an hour closed her eyes as though she 
were sleepy. This coldness, which he could not un- 
derstand in the least, irritated Denoisel and made him 
feel bitter. He was deeply hurt and humiliated, as 
his affection for Renee was pure and sincere and of 
such long standing. He tried to imagine what she 
could possibly have against him, and wondered 
whether M. Barousse had been instilling his ideas 
into her. Was she blaming him, as a witness of the 
duel, for her brother's death? Just about this time 
one of his friends who had a yacht at Cannes invited 
him for a cruise in the Mediterranean, and he accepted 
the invitation and went away at once. 

Renee was afraid of Denoisel. She only remem- 
bered the commencement of the attack that she had 
had in his presence, that terrible moment which had 
been followed by her fall and a fit of hysterics. She 
had had a sensation of being suffocated by her broth- 
er's blood, and she knew that a cry had come to her 
lips. She did not know whether she had spoken, 
whether her secret had escaped her while she was 
unconscious. Had she told Denoisel that she had 
killed Henri, that it was she who had sent that news- 
paper? Had she confessed her crime? 

When Denoisel entered her room she imagined 
that he knew all. The embarrassment which he felt 
and which was the effect of her manner to him, his 

277 



Renee Mauperin 



coldness, which was entirely due to her own, all this 
confirmed her in her idea, in her certainty that she 
had spoken and that it was a judge who was there 
with her. 

Before Denoisel's visit was over, her mother 
got up to go out of the room a minute, but Renee 
clung to her with a look of terror and insisted on 
her staying. It occurred to her that she might de- 
fend herself by saying that it was a fatality; that by 
sending the newspaper she had only meant to make 
the man put in his claim; that she had wanted to 
prevent her brother from getting this name and to 
make him break off his engagement; but then she 
would have been obliged to say why she had wished 
to do this — why she had wished to ruin her brothers 
future and prevent him from becoming a rich man. 
She would have had to confess all; and the bare idea 
of defending herself in such a way, even in the eyes 
of the man she respected more than any other, horri- 
fied and disgusted her. It seemed to her that the 
least she could do would be to leave to the one she 
had killed his fair fame and the silence of death. 

She breathed freely when she heard of Denoisel's 
departure, for it seemed to her, then, as though her 
secret were her own once more. 



278 



XLII 

Renee gradually recovered and in a few months' 
time seemed to be quite well again. All the outward 
appearances of health came back to her, and she had 
no suffering at all. She did not even feel anything 
of the disturbance which illness leaves in the organs 
it has touched and in the life it has just attacked. 

All at once the trouble began again. When she 
went upstairs or walked uphill she suddenly felt suffo- 
cated. Palpitation became more frequent and more 
violent, and then just as suddenly all this would stop 
again, as it happens sometimes with these insidious 
diseases which at intervals seem to entirely forget 
their victims. 

At the end of a few weeks the doctor from Saint- 
Denis, who was attending Renee, took M. Mauperin 
aside. 

" I don't feel satisfied about your daughter," he 
said. " There is something not quite clear to me. 
I should like to have a consultation with a specialist. 
These heart affections are very treacherous some- 
times." 

279 



Renee Mauperin 



"Yes, these heart affections — you are quite 
right," stammered M. Mauperin. 

He could not find anything else to say. His 
former notions of medicine, the desperate doctrines 
of the old school, Corvisart, the epigraph in his 
famous book on the subject of heart affections: 
" Hceret lateri lethalis amndo"', all these things came 
suddenly back to his mind, clearly and distinctly. He 
could see the pages again of those books so full of 
terror. 

" You see," the doctor went on, " the great 
danger of these diseases is that they are so often of 
long standing. People send for us when the disease 
has made great headway. There are symptoms that 
the patient has not even noticed. Your daughter 
must have been very impressionable always, from her 
very childhood, I should say; isn't that so? Torrents 
of tears for the least blame, her face on fire for nothing 
at all, and then her pulse beating a hundred a minute, 
a constant state of emotion with her, very excitable, 
tempers like convulsions, always slightly feverish. 
She would put a certain amount of passion into every- 
thing, I should say, into her friendship, her games, 
her likes and dislikes; am I not right? Oh yes, this is 
generally the way with children in whom this organ 
predominates and who have an unfortunate predis- 
position to hypertrophy. Tell me now, has she lately 
had any great emotion — any great grief? " 

280 



Renee Mauperin 

"Yes, oh yes; her brother's death." 

" Her brother's death. Ah yes, there was that," 
said the doctor, not appearing to attach any great 
importance, nevertheless, to this information. " I 
meant to ask you, though, whether she had been 
crossed in love, for instance." 

"She? Crossed in love? Oh, good heavens!" 
and M. Mauperin shrugged his shoulders, and half 
joining his hands looked up in the air. 

" Well, I'm only asking you that for the sake of 
having my conscience clear. Accidents of this kind 
only develop the germ that is already there and 
hasten on the disease. The physical influence of 
the passions on the heart is a theory — It has 
been studied a great deal the last twenty years; and 
quite right, too, in my opinion. The thesis that the 
heart is lacerated in a burst of temper, in any great 
moral " 

M. Mauperin interrupted him: 

" Then, a consultation — you fancy — you think — 
don't you? " 

" Yes, M. Mauperin, that will be quite the best 
thing. You see, it will be more satisfactory for 
every one; for you, and for me. We should call in M. 
Bouillaud, I suppose. He is considered the first 
authority." 

"Yes — M. Bouillaud," repeated M. Mauperin, 
mechanically nodding his head in assent. 

281 



XLIII 

It was just five minutes past twelve, and M. 
Mauperin was seated by Renee's bed, holding her 
two hands in his. Renee glanced at the time-piece. 

" He'll be here soon," said M. Mauperin. 

Renee answered by closing her eye-lids gently, 
and her breathing and the beating of her heart could 
l be heard like the ticking of a watch in the silence 
of the room at night. 

Suddenly a peal of the door-bell rang out, clearly 
and imperiously, vibrating through the house. It 
seemed to M. Mauperin as though it had been rung 
within him, and a shudder passed through him to 
his very finger-tips like a needle-prick. He went to 
the door and opened it. 

" It is some one who rang by mistake, sir," said 
the servant-man. 

" It's very warm," said M. Mauperin to his daugh- 
ter as he took his seat again, looking very pale. 

Five minutes later the servant knocked. The 
doctor was waiting in the drawing-room. 

"Ah! " said M. Mauperin, getting up once more. 
282 



Renee Mauperin 



" Go to him," murmured Renee, and then calling 
him back, she asked, looking alarmed: " Is he going 
to examine me? " 

" I don't know; I don't think so. There'll be no 
need, perhaps," answered M. Mauperin, playing with 
the knob of the door. 

M. Mauperin had fetched the doctor and left him 
with his daughter. He was in the drawing-room 
waiting the result. He had walked up and down, 
taken a seat, and gazed mechanically at a flower on 
the carpet, and had then gone to the window and 
was tapping with his fingers on the pane. 

It seemed to him as though everything within 
himself and all round had suddenly stopped. He did 
not know whether he had been there an hour or a 
minute. It was one of those moments in life for him, 
the measure and duration of which cannot be cal- 
culated. He felt as though he were living again 
through his whole existence, and as though all the 
emotions of a lifetime were crowded into a moment 
that was eternal. 

He turned dizzy, like a man in a dream falling 
from a height and enduring the anguish of falling. 
All kinds of indistinct ideas, of confused anxieties and 
vague terrors, seemed to rise from the pit of his 
stomach and buzz round his temples. Yesterday, 
to-day, to-morrow, the doctor, his daughter, her ill— 

283 



Renee Mauperin 



ness, all this whirled round in his head, perplexing 
him, mingled as it all was with a physical sensation 
of uneasiness, anxiety, fear, and dread. Then all at 
once one idea became distinct. He had one of those 
clear visions that cross the mind at such times. He 
saw the doctor with his ear pressed against his daugh- 
ter's back and he listened with him. He thought he 
heard the bed creak as it does when any one turns 
on it. It was over, they would be coming now; but 
no one came. He began pacing up and down again, 
as he could not keep still. He grew irritable with 
impatience and thought the doctor was a very long 
time, but the next minute he said to himself that it 
was a good sign, that a great specialist would not 
relish wasting his time, and that if there had been 
nothing he could do, he would already have been 
back. Fresh hope came to him with this thought: 
his daughter was saved; when the doctor came in he 
should see by his face that his daughter was saved. 
He watched the door, but no one came. Then he 
began to say to himself that they would have to take 
precautions, that perhaps she would always be deli- 
cate, that there were plenty of people who went on 
living in spite of palpitation of the heart. Then the 
word, the terrible word, death, came to him and 
haunted him. He tried to drive it away by thinking 
over and over again the same thoughts about con- 
valescence, getting well, and good health. He went 

284 



Renee Mauperin 



over in his mind all the persons he had known, who 
had been ill a long time, and who were not dead. 
And yet in spite of all his efforts the same question 
kept coming back to him: "What would the doctor 
tell him? " 

He repeated this over and over again to him- 
self. It seemed to him as though this visit were 
never going to finish and never would finish. And 
then at times he would shudder at the idea of seeing 
the door open. He would have liked to remain as 
he was forever, and negerJkxiQw. Finally hope came 
back to him once more, just as the door opened. 

" Well? " said M. Mauperin to the doctor as he 
entered the room. 

" You must be brave," said the doctor. 

M. Mauperin looked up, glanced at the doctor, 
moved his lips without uttering a word — his mouth 
was dry and parched. 

The doctor began to explain in full his daughter's 
disease, its gravity, the complications that were to 
be feared: he then wrote out a long prescription, 
saying to M. Mauperin at each item: 

" You understand? " 

"Perfectly!" answered M. Mauperin, looking 
stupefied. 

" Ah, my dear little girl, you are going to get 
well! " 

285 



Renee Mauperin 



These were M. Mauperin's words to his daughter 
when he went back to her room. 

" Really? " she asked. 

" Kiss me." 

"What did he tell you? " 

" Well, you need only look at my face to know 
what he said," answered M. Mauperin, smiling at her. 
He felt as though it would kill him, though, that 
smile; and turning away under the pretence of look- 
ing for his hat, he continued, " I must go to Paris to 
get the prescription made up." 



286 



XLIV 

At the railway station M. Mauperin saw the doc- 
tor getting into the train. He got into another 
compartment, as he did not feel as though he 
had the strength to speak to him or even look at 
him. 

On arriving in Paris he went to a chemist's and 
was told that it would take three hours to make up 
the prescription. " Three hours! " he exclaimed, but 
at heart he was glad that it would be so long. It 
would give him some time before returning to the 
house. When once he was in the street he walked 
fast. He had no consecutive ideas, but a sort of 
heavy, ceaseless throbbing in his head like the throb 
of neuralgia. His sensations were blunted, as though 
he were in a stupor. He saw nothing but the legs ^ 
of people walking and the wheels of the carriages 
turning round. His head felt heavy and at the same 
time empty. As he saw other people walking, he 
walked too. The passers-by appeared to be taking him 
with them, and the crowd to be carrying him along 
in its stream. Everything looked faint, indistinct, 

287 



Renee Mauperin 



and of a neutral tint, as things do the day after any 
wild excitement or intoxication. The light and noise 
of the streets he seemed to see and hear in a dream. 
He would not have known there was any sun if it 
had not been for the white trousers the policemen 
were wearing, which had caught his eye several 
times. 

It was all the same to him whether he went to 
the right or left. He neither wanted anything nor 
had he the energy to do anything. He was surprised 
to see the movement around him — people who were 
hurrying along, walking quickly, on their way to 
something. He had had neither aim nor object in 
life for the last few hours. It seemed to him as 
though the world had come to an end, as though he 
were a dead man in the midst of the life and activity 
of Paris. He tried to think of anything in all that 
might happen to a man capable of moving him, of 
touching him in any way, and he could not conceive 
of anything which could reach to the depths of his 
despair. 

Sometimes, as though he were answering inquiries 
about his daughter, he would say aloud, " Oh, yes, 
she is very ill! " and it was as though the words he 
had uttered had been said by some one else at his 
side. Often a work-girl without any hat, a pretty 
young girl with a round waist, gay and healthy with 
the rude health of her class, would pass by him. He 

288 



Renee Mauperin 

would cross the street that he might not see her 
again. He was furious just for a minute with all 
these people who passed him, with all these useless 
lives. They were not beloved as his daughter was, 
and there was no need for them to go on living. He 
went into one of the public gardens and sat down. 
A child put some of its little sand-pies on to the 
tails of his coat; other children getting bolder ap- 
proached him with all the daring of sparrows. 
Presently, feeling slightly embarrassed, they left 
their little spades, stopped playing and stood round, 
looking shyly and sympathetically, like so many 
men and women in miniature, at this tall gentle- 
man who was so sad. M. Mauperin rose and left 
the garden. 

His tongue was furred and his throat dry. He 
went into a cafe, and opposite him was a little girl 
wearing a white jacket and a straw hat. Her frock 
was short, showing her little firm, bare legs with 
their white socks. She was moving about all the 
time, climbing and jumping on to her father and 
standing straight up on his knees. She had a little 
cross round her neck. Every few minutes her father 
begged her to keep still. 

M. Mauperin closed his eyes; he could see his 

own little daughter just as she had been at six years 

old. Presently he opened a review, The Illustration, 

and bent over it, trying to make himself look at the 

*9 289 



Renee Mauperin 



pictures, and when he reached the last page he set 
himself to find out one of the enigmas. 

When M. Mauperin lifted his head again he wiped 
his face with his handkerchief. He had made out 
the enigma: "Against death there is no appeal.'' 



290 



XLV 

The terrible existence of those who have given 
up hope, and who can only wait, now commenced 
for M. Mauperin; that life of anguish, fear and trem- 
bling, of despair and of constant shocks, when every 
one is listening and on the watch for death; that life 
when one is afraid of any noise in the house, and 
just as afraid of silence, afraid of every movement in 
the next room, afraid of the sound of voices drawing 
near, afraid to hear a door close, and afraid of seeing 
the face of the person who opens the door when one 
enters the house, and of whom one asks without 
speaking if the beloved one still lives. 

As people frequently do when nursing their sick 
friends, he began to reproach himself bitterly. He 
made his sorrow still harder to bear by making him- 
self believe that it was partly his own fault, that every- 
thing had not been done which ought to have been, 
that she might have been saved if only there had been 
a consultation earlier, if at a certain time, a certain 
month or day, he had only thought of something 
or other. 

At night his restlessness in bed seemed to make 
291 



Renee Mauperin 



his grief more wild and feverish. In the solitude, the 
darkness, and the silence, one thought, one vision, 
was with him all the time — his daughter, always his 
daughter. His anxiety worked on his imagination, 
his dread increased, and his wakefulness had all the 
intensity of the terrible sensation of nightmare. In 
the morning he was afraid to wake up, and just as a 
man, when half-awake, will instinctively turn over 
from the light, so he would do his utmost to fall 
asleep again, to drive away his first thoughts, not to 
remember anything and so escape for a moment 
longer from the full consciousness of the present. 

Then the day came again with all its torments, 
and the father was obliged to control his feelings, to 
conquer himself, to be gay and cheerful, to reply to 
the smiles of the suffering girl, to answer her pitiful 
attempts to be gay, and to keep up her feeble illu- 
sions, her clinging to the future, with some of those 
heart-rending words of comfort with which dying 
people will delude themselves, asking as they so often 
do for hope from those who are with them. 

She would say to him, sometimes, in that feeble, 
soft whisper peculiar to invalids and which dies away 
to a whisper, " How nice it would be to have no pain! 
I can tell you, I shall enjoy life as soon as I get 
quite well." 

" Yes, indeed," he would answer, choking down 

his tears. 

292 



XLVI 

Sick people are apt to believe that there are 
places where they would be better, countries which 
would cure them. There are certain spots and mem- 
ories which come back to their mind and seem to 
fascinate them as an exile is fascinated by his native 
land, and which lull them as a child is lulled to rest 
in its cradle. Just as a child's fears are calmed in 
the arms of its nurse, so their hopes fly to a country, 
a garden, or a village where they were born and 
where surely they could not die. 

Renee began to think of Morimond. She kept 
saying to herself that if she were once there she 
should get well. She felt sure, quite sure of it. 
This Briche house had brought her bad luck. She 
had been so happy at Morimond! And with this 
longing for change, the wish to move about which 
invalids get, this fancy of hers grew, and became more 
and more persistent. She spoke of it to her father 
and worried him about it. It would not make any 
difference to any one, she pleaded, the refinery would 
go along by itself, and M. Bernard, his manager, was 

293 



Renee Mauperin 

trustworthy and would see to everything, and then 
they could come back in the autumn. 

" When shall we start, father dear? " she kept 
saying, getting more and more impatient every day. 

M. Mauperin gave in at last. His daughter prom- 
ised him so faithfully that she would get well at Mori- 
mond that he began to believe it himself. He im- 
agined that this sick fancy was an inspiration. 

" Yes, the country will perhaps do her good," 
said the doctor, accustomed to these whims of dying 
people, who fancy that by going farther away they 
will succeed in throwing death off their track. 

M. Mauperin promptly arranged his business mat- 
ters, and the family started for Morimond. 

The pleasure of setting off, the excitement of the 
journey, the nervous force that all this gives even to 
people who have no strength at all, the breeze coming 
in by the open window of the railway carriage kept 
the invalid up as far as Chaumont. She reached 
there without being overfatigued. M. Mauperin let 
her rest a day, and the following morning hired 
the best carriage he could get in the town and they 
all set out once more for Morimond. The road was 
bad and the journey was disagreeable and long. It 
began to get warm at nine o'clock, and by eleven 
the sun scorched the leather of the carriage. The 
horses breathed hard, perspired, and went along with 
difficulty. Mme. Mauperin was leaning back against 

294 



Renee Mauperin 

the front cushion and dozing. M. Mauperin, seated 
next his daughter, held a pillow at her back, against 
which she fell after every little jolt. Every now and 
then she asked the time, and when she was told she 
would murmur, " No later than that! " 

Towards three o'clock they were getting quite 
near their destination; the sky was cloudy, there was 
less dust, and it was cooler altogether. A water- 
wagtail began to fly in front of the carriage about 
thirty paces at a time, rising from the little heaps 
of stones. There were elm-trees all along the road 
and some of the fields were fenced round. Renee 
seemed to revive as one does in one's natal air. She 
sat up and, leaning against the door with her chin on 
her hand as children do when in a carriage, she looked 
out at everything. It was as though she were breath- 
ing in all she saw. As the carriage rolled along, she 
said: 

" Ah, the big poplar-tree at the Hermitage is 
broken. The little boys used to fish for leeches in 
this pool — oh, there are M. Richet's rooks!" 

In the little wood near the village her father had 
to get out and pluck a flower for her, which he could 
not see and which she pointed out to him growing 
on the edge of the ditch. 

The carriage passed by the little inn, the first 
houses, the grocer's, the blacksmith's, the large wal- 
nut-tree, the church, the watchmaker's, who was also 

295 



Renee Mauperin 



a dealer in curiosities, and the Pigeau farm. The 
villagers were out in the fields. Some children who 
were tormenting a wet cat stopped to see the carriage 
drive past. An old man, seated on a bench in front 
of his cottage door, with a woollen shawl wrapped 
round him and shivering in spite of the sun, lifted 
his cap. Then the horses stopped, the carriage door 
was opened, and a man who was waiting in front of 
the lodge lifted Mile. Mauperin up in his arms. 

" Oh, our poor young lady; she's no heavier than 
a feather! " he said. 

" How do you do, Chretiennot — how do you do, 
comrade? " said M. Mauperin, shaking hands with 
the old gardener, who had served under him in his 
regiment. 



296 



XLVII 

The next day and the days which followed, Renee 
had the most delicious waking moments, when the 
light which was just breaking, the morning of the 
earth and sky, mingled — in the dawn of her thoughts 
— with the morning of her life. Her first memories 
came back to her with the first songs outdoors. The 
young birds woke up in their nests, awakening her 
childhood. 

Supported and indeed almost carried by her father, 
she insisted on seeing everything again — the garden, 
the fruit-trees on the walls, the meadow in front of 
the house, the shady canals, the pool with its wide 
sheet of still water. She remembered all the trees 
and the garden paths again, and they seemed to her 
like the things one gradually recalls of a dream. Her 
feet found the way along paths which she used to 
know and which were now grown over with trees. 
The ruins seemed as many years older to her as she 
was older since she had last seen them. She remem- 
bered certain places on the grass where she had seen 
the shadow of her frock when as a child she had been 

297 



Renee Mauperin 



running there. She found the spot where she had 
buried a little dog. It was a white one, named 
Nicolas Bijou. She had loved it dearly, and she could 
remember her father carrying it about in the kitchen 
garden after it had been washed. 

There were hundreds of souvenirs, too, for her in 
the house. Certain corners in the rooms had the 
same effect on her as toys that have been stored away 
in a garret, and that one comes across years after. 
She loved to hear the sound of the mournful old 
weather-cock on the house-top, which had always 
soothed her fears and lulled her to sleep as a 
child. 

She appeared to rouse up and to revive. The 
change, her natal air, and these souvenirs seemed 
to do her good. This improvement lasted some 
weeks. 

One morning, her father, who was with her in the 
garden, was watching her. She was amusing herself 
with cutting away the old roses in a clump of white 
rose-bushes. The sunshine made its way through 
the straw of her large hat, and the brilliancy of the 
light and the softness of the shade rested on her thin 
little face. She moved about gaily and briskly from 
one rose-tree to another, and the thorns caught hold 
of her dress as though they wanted to play with her. 
At every clip of her scissors, from a branch covered 
with small, open roses, with pink hearts all full of 

298 



Renee Mauperin 



life, there fell a dead earth-coloured rose which looked 
to M. Mauperin like the corpse of a flower. 

All at once, leaving everything, Renee flung her- 
self into her father's arms. 

" Oh, papa, how I do love you! " she said, burst- 
ing into tears. 



299 



XLVIII 

From that day the improvement began to dis- 
appear again. She gradually lost the healthy colour 
which life's last kiss had brought to her cheeks. She 
no longer had that delightful restlessness of the con- 
valescent, that longing to move about which only a 
short time ago had made her take her father's arm 
constantly for a stroll. No more gay words sprang 
from her mind to her lips, as they had done at first 
when she had forgotten for a time all suffering; there 
was no more of the happy prattle which had been 
the result of returning hope. She was too languid 
to talk or even to answer questions. 

" No, there's nothing the matter with me — I am 
all right; " but the words fell from her lips with an 
accent of pain, sadness, and resignation. 

She suffered from tightness of breath now, and 
constantly felt a weight on her chest, which her respi- 
ration had difficulty in lifting. A sort of constraint 
and vague discomfort, caused by this, made itself 
felt throughout her whole system, attacking her 
nerves, taking from her all vital energy and all in- 

300 



Renee Mauperin 



clination to move about, keeping her crushed and 
submissive, without any strength to fight against it 
or to do anything. 

Her father persuaded her to try the effect of a 
cupping-glass. 



301 



XLIX 

She took off her shawl in that slow way peculiar 
to invalids, so slow that it seems painful. Her trem- 
bling fingers felt about for the buttons that she had 
to unfasten, her mother helped her to take off the 
flannel and cotton-wool in which she was wrapped, 
leaving her poor thin neck and arms bare. 

She looked at her father, at the lighted candle, the 
twisted paper and the wine-glasses, with that dread 
that one feels on seeing the hot irons or fire being 
prepared for torturing one's flesh. 

" Am I right like this? " she asked, trying to 
smile. 

" No, you want to be in this position," answered 
M. Mauperin, showing her how to sit. 

She turned round on her arm-chair, put her two 
hands on the back of it and her cheek down on her 
hand, pulled her legs up, crossed her feet, and, half- 
kneeling and half-crouching, only showed the profile 
of her frightened face and her bare shoulders. She 
looked ready for the coffin with her bony angles. 
Her hair, which was very loose, glided with the 

302 



Renee Mauperin 



shadow down the hollow of her back. Her shoulder- 
blades projected, the joints of her spine could be 
counted, and the point of a poor thin little elbow 
appeared through the sleeves of her under-linen, which 
had fallen to the bend of her arm. 

" Well, father? " 

He was standing there, riveted to the spot, and 
he did not even know of what he was thinking. 
At the sound of his daughter's voice he picked up a 
glass, which he remembered belonged to a set he had 
bought for a dinner-party in honour of Renee's bap- 
tism. He lighted a piece of paper, threw it into the 
glass, and closed his eyes as he turned the glass over. 
Renee gave a little hiss of pain, a shudder ran through 
all the bones down her back, and then she said: 

" Oh, well; I thought it would hurt me much 
more than that." 

M. Mauperin took his hand from the glass and it 
fell to the ground; the cupping had not succeeded. 

" Give me another," he said to his wife. 

Mme. Mauperin handed it to him in a leisurely 
way. 

" Give it me," he said, almost snatching it from 
her. His forehead was wet with perspiration, but 
he no longer trembled. This time the vacuum was 
made: the skin puckered up all round the glass and 
rose inside as though it were being drawn by the 
scrap of blackened paper. 

303 



Renee Mauperin 



" Oh, father! don't bear on so/' said Renee, who 
had been holding her lips tightly together; " take 
your hand off." 

" Why, I'm not touching it — look," said M. Mau- 
perin, showing her his hands. 

Renee's delicate white skin rose higher and higher 
in the glass, turning red, patchy, and violet. When 
once the cupping was done the glass had to be taken 
away again, the skin drawn to the edge on one side 
of the glass, and then the glass swayed backward and 
forward from the other side. M. Mauperin was 
obliged to begin again, two or three times over, and 
to press firmly on the skin, near as it was to the 
bones. 



304 



Disease does its work silently and makes secret 
ravages in the constitution. Then come those ter- 
rible outward changes which gradually destroy the 
beauty, efface the personality, and, with the first 
touches of death, transform those we love into liv- 
ing corpses. 

Every day M. Mauperin sought for something in 
his daughter which he could not find — something 
which was no longer there. Her eyes, her smile, her 
gestures, her footstep, her very dress which used 
proudly to tell of her twenty years, the girlish vivacity 
which seemed to hover round her and light on others 
as it passed — everything about her was changing and 
life itself gradually leaving her. She no longer seemed 
to animate all that she touched. Her clothes fell 
loosely round her in folds as they do on old people. 
Her step dragged along, and the sound of her little 
heels was no longer heard. When she put her arms 
round her father's neck, she joined her hands awk- 
wardly, her caresses had lost their pretty gracefulness. 
All her gestures were stiff, she moved about like a 

305 



Renee Mauperin 



person who feels cold or who is afraid of taking up 
too much space. Her arms, which were generally 
hanging down, now looked like the wet wings of a 
bird. She scarcely even resembled her old self. And 
when she was walking in front of her father, with her 
bent back, her shrunken figure, her arms hanging 
loosely at her sides, and her dress almost falling off 
her, it seemed to M. Mauperin that this could not be 
his daughter, and as he looked at her he thought of 
the Renee of former days. 

There was a shadow round her mouth that seemed 
to go inside when she smiled. The beauty spot on 
her hand, just by her little finger, had grown larger, 
and was as black as though mortification had set in. 



306 



LI 

" Mother, it's Henri's birthday to-day." 
" Yes, I know," said Mme. Mauperin without 
moving. 

" Suppose we were to go to church? " 
Mme. Mauperin rose and went out of the room, 
returning very soon with her bonnet and cape on. 
Half an hour later M. Mauperin was helping his 
daughter out of the carriage at the Maricourt church- 
door. Renee went to the little side-chapel, where the 
marble altar stood on which was the little miraculous 
black wooden Virgin to which she had prayed with 
great awe as a child. She sat down on a bench which 
was always there and murmured a prayer. Her mother 
stood near her, looking at the church and not praying 
at all. Renee then got up and, without taking her 
father's arm, walked with a step that scarcely faltered 
right through the church to a little side door leading 
into the cemetery. 

" I wanted to see whether that was still there," 
she said to her father, pointing to an old bouquet of 
artificial flowers among the crosses and wreaths which 
were hung on the tomb. 

307 



Renee Mauperin 



" Come, my child," said M. Mauperin; " don't 
stand too long. Let us go home again now." 

" Oh, there's plenty of time." 

There was a stone seat under the porch with a 
ray of sunshine falling on it. 

" It's warm here," she said, laying her hand on 
the stone. " Put my shawl there so that I can sit 
down a little. I shall have the sun on my back — 
there." 

" It isn't wise," said M. Mauperin. 

" Oh, just to make me happy." When she 
was seated and leaning against him, she mur- 
mured in a voice as soft as a sigh, " How gay it is 
here." 

The lime-trees, buzzing with bees, were stirring 
gently in the faint wind. A few fowl in the thick 
grass were running about, pecking and looking for 
food. At the foot of a wall, by the side of a plough 
and cart, the wheels of which were white with dry 
mud, on the stumps of some old trees with the bark 
peeled off, some little chickens were frolicking about, 
and some ducks were asleep, looking like balls of 
feathers. There seemed to be a murmur of husied 
voices from the church, and the light played on the 
blue of the stained-glass windows. Flights of pigeons 
kept starting up and taking refuge in the niches of 
sculpture and in the holes between the old grey 
stones. The river could be seen and its splashing 

308 



Renee Mauperin 



sound heard; a wild white colt bounded along to the 
water's edge. 

"Ah!" said Renee after a few moments, "we 
ought to have been made of something else. Why 
did God make us of flesh and blood? It's frightful! " 

Her eyes had fallen on some soil turned up in a 
corner of the cemetery, half hidden by two barrel- 
hoops crossed over each other and up which wild 
convolvulus was growing. 



309 



LII 

Renee's complaint did not make her cross and 
capricious, nor did it cause her any of that nervous 
irritability so common to invalids, and which makes 
those who are nursing them share their suffering 
morally. She gave herself entirely up to her fate. 
Her life was ebbing away without any apparent effort 
on her part to hold it back or to stop it in its course. 
She was still affectionate and gentle. Her wishes 
had none of the unreasonableness of dying fancies. 
The darkness which was gathering round her brought 
peace with it. She did not fight against death, but 
let it come like a beautiful night closing over her 
white soul. 

There were times, however, when Nature asserted 
itself within her, when her mind faltered from sheer 
bodily weakness, and when she listened to the stealthy 
progress of the disease which was gradually detaching 
her from her hold on life. At such times she would 
maintain a profound silence, and would be terribly 
calm, remaining for a long time mute and motionless 
almost like a dead person. She would pass half the 

310 



Renee Mauperin 

day in this way without even hearing the clock strike, 
gazing before her just beyond her feet with a steady, 
fixed gaze and seeing nothing at all. Her father 
could not even catch the expression of her eyes at 
such times. Her long lashes would quiver two or 
three times, and she would hide her eyes by letting 
the lids droop over them, and it seemed to him then 
as though she were asleep with her eyes half open. 
He would talk to her, search his brains for something 
that might interest her, and endeavour to make jokes, 
so that she should hear him and feel that he was there; 
but in the middle of his sentence his daughter's atten- 
tion, her thoughts, and her intelligent look would 
leave him. He no longer felt the same warmth in her 
affection, and when he was with her he himself felt 
chilled now. It seemed as if disease were robbing 
him day by day of a little more of his daughter's 
heart. 



3" 



LIII 

Sometimes, too, Renee would let a few words slip, 
showing that she was mourning her fate as sick peo- 
ple do, words which sink to the heart and give one 
a chill like death itself. 

One day her father was reading the newspaper to 
her; she took it from him to look at the marriage 
announcements. 

"Twenty-nine! How old she was, wasn't she?" 
she said, as though speaking to herself. She had been 
glancing down the death column. M. Mauperin did 
not answer; he paced up and down the room for a 
few minutes and then went away. 

When Renee was alone she got up to close the 
door, which her father had not pulled to, and which 
kept banging. She fancied she heard a groan in the 
corridor and looked, but there was no one there; she 
listened a minute; but as everything was silent again 
she was just going to close the door, when she 
thought she heard the same sound again. She went 
out into the corridor as far as her father's room. It 
was from there that it came. The key was not in 

312 



Renee Mauperin 



the lock, and Renee stooped down and, through 
the keyhole, saw her father, who had flung himself 
on his bed, weeping bitterly and shaken with sobs. 
His head was buried in the pillow, and he was 
endeavouring to stifle down his tears and his de- 
spair. 



3*3 



LIV 

Renee was determined that her father should 
weep no more on her account. 

" Listen to me, papa," she said, the following 
morning. " We are going to leave here at the end 
of September; that's settled, isn't it? We are going 
everywhere, a month to one place and a fortnight to 
another — just as we fancy. Well, I want you to take 
me now to all the places where you fought. Do you 
know, I've heard that you fell in love with a princess? 
Suppose we were to come across her again, what 
should you say to that? Wasn't it at Pordenone that 
you got those great scars?" And, taking her father's 
face in her two hands, she pressed her lips to the 
white, hollow places which had been marked by the 
finger of Glory. 

" I want you to tell me all about everything," she 
continued; " it will be ever so nice to go all through 
your campaigns again with your daughter. If one 
winter will not be enough for it all, why, we'll just 
take two. And when I'm quite myself again — we are 
quite rich enough surely, Henriette and I; you've 

3i4 



Renee Mauperin 

worked hard enough for us — well, we'll just sell the 
refinery, and we'll all come here. We'll go to Paris 
for two months of the year to enjoy ourselves; that 
will be quite enough, won't it? Then as you always 
like to have something to do, you can take your farm 
again from Tetevuide's son-in-law. We'll have some 
cows and a nice farm-yard for mamma — do you hear, 
mamma? I shall be outdoors all day; and the end 
of it will be that I shall get too well — you'll see. And 
then we'll have people to visit us all the time. In the 
country we can allow ourselves that little luxury — 
that won't ruin us — and we shall be as happy, as 
happy — you'll see." 

Travelling and plans of all kinds — she talked of 
nothing but the future now. She spoke of it as of a 
promised thing, a certainty. It was she, now, who 
made every one hopeful, and she concealed the fact 
that she was dying so skilfully and pretended so well 
that she wanted to live, that M. Mauperin on seeing 
her and listening to her dreams, gave himself up to 
dreaming with her of years which they had before 
them and which would be full of peace, tranquility, 
and happiness. Sometimes, even, the illusions that 
the invalid had invented herself dazzled her too, for 
an instant, and she would begin to believe in her own 
fiction, forget herself for a moment and, quite de- 
ceived like the others, she would say to herself, " Sup- 
pose, after all, that I should get well!" At other 

315 



Renee Mauperin 



times she would delight in going back to the past. 
She would tell about things that had happened, about 
her own feelings, funny incidents that she remem- 
bered, or she would talk about her childish pleasures. 
It was as though she had risen from her death-bed 
to embrace her father for the last time with all she 
could muster of her youth. 

" Oh, my first ball-dress," she said to him one 
day; " I can see it now — it was a pink tulle one. The 
dressmaker didn't bring it — it was raining — and we 
couldn't get a cab. How you did hurry along! And 
how queer you looked when you came back carrying 
a cardboard box! And you were so wet when you 
kissed me! I remember it all so well." 

Renee had only herself and her own courage to 
depend on, in her task of keeping her father up and 
herself too. Her mother was there, of course; but 
ever since Henri's death she had been buried in a 
sort of silent apathy. She was indifferent to all that 
went on, mute and absent-minded. She was there 
with her daughter, night and day, without a murmur, 
patient and always even-tempered, ready to do any- 
thing, as docile and humble as a servant, but her 
affection seemed almost mechanical. The soul had 
gone out of her caresses, and all her ministrations 
were for the body rather than the heart; there was 
nothing of the mother about her now except the 
hands. 

316 



LV 

Renee could still drag along with her father to 
the first trees of the little wood near the house. She 
would then sink down with her back against the moss 
of an oak-tree on the boundary of the wood. The 
smell of hay from the fields, an odour of grass and 
honey came to her there with a delicious warmth 
from the sunshine, the fresh air from the wood, damp 
from the cool springs and the unmade paths. 

In the midst of the deep silence, an immense, 
indistinct rustling could be heard, and a hum and 
buzz of winged creatures, which filled the air with a 
ceaseless sound like that of a bee-hive and the infinite 
murmur of the sea. All around Renee, and near to 
her, there seemed to be a great living peace, in which 
everything was being swayed — the gnat in the air, the 
leaf on the branch, the shadows on the bark of the 
trees, the tops of the trees against the sky, and the 
wild oats on each side of the paths. Then from this 
murmur came the sighing sound of a deep respira- 
tion, a breeze coming from afar which made the trees 
tremble as it passed them, while the blue of the 

317 



Renee Mauperin 



heavenly vault above the shaking^ leaves seemed 
fixed and immovable. The boughs swayed slowly up 
and down, a breath passed over Renee's temples and 
touched her neck, a puff of wind kissed and cheered 
her. Gradually she began to lose all consciousness 
of her physical being, the sensation and fatigue of 
living; an exquisite languor took possession of her, 
and it seemed to her as though she were partially 
freed from her material body and were just ready to 
pass away in the divine sweetness of all these things. 
Every now and then she nestled closer to her father 
like a child who is afraid of being carried away by a 
gust of wind. 

There was a stone bench covered with moss in 
the garden. After dinner, towards seven o'clock, 
Renee liked to sit there; she would put her feet up, 
leaning her head against the back of the seat, and with 
a trail of convolvulus tickling her ear she would stay 
there, looking up at the sky. It was just at the time 
of those beautiful summer days which fade away in 
silvery evenings. Imperceptibly her eyes and her 
thoughts were fascinated by the infinite whiteness of 
the sky, just ready to die away. As she watched she 
seemed to see more brilliancy and light coming from 
this closing day, a more dazzling brightness and 
serenity seemed to fall upon her. Gradually some 
great depths opened in the heavens, and she fancied 
she could see millions of little starry flames as pale 

3i8 



Renee Mauperin 

as the light of tapers, trembling with the night 
breeze. And then, from time to time, weary of 
gazing into that dazzling brightness which kept re- 
ceding, blinded by those myriads of suns, she would 
close her eyes for an instant as though shrinking from 
that gulf which was hanging over her and drawing 
her up above. 



319 



LVI 

" MoTHER, ,, she said, " don't you see how nice 
I look? Just see all the trouble I've taken for you; " 
and joining her hands over her head, her dress loose 
at the waist, she sank down on the pillows full length 
on the sofa in a careless, languid attitude which was 
both graceful and sad to see. Renee thought that 
the bed and the white sheets made her look ill. She 
would not stay there, and gathered together all her 
remaining strength to get up. She dressed slowly 
and heroically towards eleven o'clock, taking a long 
time over it, stopping to get breath, resting her arms 
over and over again, after holding them up to do 
her hair. She had thrown a fichu of point-lace over 
her head, and was wearing a dressing-gown of starched 
white pique, with plenty of material in it, falling in 
wide pleats. Her small feet were incased in low 
shoes, and instead of rosettes she wore two little 
bunches of violets which Chretiennot brought her 
every morning. In order to look more alive, as 
invalids do when they are up and dressed, she would 

320 



Renee Mauperin 

stay there all day in this white girlish toilette fra- 
grant with violets. 

" Oh, how odd it is when one is ill! " she said, 
looking down at herself and then all round the room. 
" I don't like anything that is not pretty now, just 
fancy! I couldn't wear anything ugly. Do you 
know I've thought of something I want. You re- 
member the little silver-mounted jug — so pretty it 
was — we saw it in a jeweller's shop in the Rue Saint 
Honore when we had just gone out of the theatre 
for the interval. If it isn't sold — if he still has it, you 
might let him send it. Oh, I know I'm getting the 
most ruinous tastes — I warn you of that. I want to 
arrange things here. I'm getting very difficult to 
please; in everything I have the most luxurious ideas. 
I used not to be at all elegant in my tastes; and now 
I have eyes for everything I wear, and for everything 
all round me — oh, such eyes! There are certain col- 
ours that positively pain me — just fancy — and others 
that I had never noticed before. It is being ill that 
makes me like this — it must be that. It's so ugly to 
be ill; and so it makes you like everything that is 
beautiful all the more." 

With all this coquetry which the approach of 
death had brought to her, these fancies and caprices, 
these little delicacies and elegancies, other senses too 
seemed to come to Renee. She was becoming, and 
she felt herself becoming, more of a woman. Under 
21 321 



Renee Mauperin 

all the languor and indolence caused by illness, her 
disposition, which had always been affectionate but 
somewhat masculine and violent, grew gentler, more 
unbending, and more calm. Gradually the ways, 
tastes, inclinations, and ideas — all the signs of her 
sex, in fact — made their appearance to her. Her 
mind seemed to undergo the same transformation. 
She gave up her impetuous way of criticising and her 
daring speech. Occasionally she would use one of 
H her old expressions, and then she would say, smiling, 
" That is a bit of the old Renee come back." She 
remembered speeches she had made, bold things she 
had done, and her familiar manner with young men; 
she would no longer dare to act and speak as in those 
old days. She was surprised, and did not know her- 
self in her new character. She had given up reading 
serious or amusing books; she only cared now- for 
works which set her thinking, tooJks_wji]iJdeas. 
When her father talked to her about hunting and the 
meets to which she had been and of those in store for 
her, it gave her the sensation of being about to fall, 
and the very idea of mounting a horse frightened her. 
All the emotions and weaknesses that she felt were 
quite new to her. Flowers about which she had never 
troubled much were now as dear to her as persons. 
She had never liked needlework, and now that she 
had started to embroider a skirt, she enjoyed doing 
it. She quite roused up and lived over again in the 

322 






Renee Mauperin 



memories of her early girlhood. She thought of the 
children with whom she used to play, of the friends 
she had had, of different places to which she had been, 
and of the faces of the girls in the same row with her 
at her confirmation. 



323 



LVII 

As she was looking out of the window one day, 
she saw a woman sit down in the dust in the middle 
of the village street, between a stone and a wheel-rut, 
and unswathe her little baby. The child lay face 
downward, the upper part of its body in the shade, 
moving its little legs, crossing its feet, and kicking 
about, and the sun caressed it lovingly as it does the 
bare limbs of a child. A few rays that played over it 
seemed to strew on its little feet some of the rose 
petals of a Fete-Dieu procession. When the mother 
and child had gone away Renee .still went on gazing 
out of the window. 



324 



LVIII 

" You see," she said to her father, " I never could 
fall in love; you made me too hard to please. I 
always knew beforehand that no one could ever love 
me as you did. I saw so many things come into 
your face when I was there, such happiness! And 
when we went anywhere together, weren't you proud 
of me! Oh! weren't you just proud to have me lean- 
ing on your arm! It would have been all no good 
for any one else to have loved me; I should never 
have found any one like my own father; you spoiled 
me too much." 

" But all that won't prevent my dear little girl one 
of these fine days, when she gets well, finding a 
handsome young man " 

" Oh, your handsome young man is a long way 
off yet," said Renee, a smile lighting up her eyes. 
" It seems strange to you," she went on, " doesn't it, 
that I have never seemed anxious to marry. Well, 
I tell you, it is your own fault. Oh, I'm not sorry 
in the least. What more did I want? Why, I had 
everything; I could not imagine any other happiness. 
I never even thought of such a thing. I didn't want 

325 



Renee Mauperin 



any change. I was so well off. What could I have 
had, now, more than I already had? My life was so 
happy with you; and I was so contented. Yes," she 
went on, after a minute's silence, " if I had been like 
so many girls, if I had had parents who were cold 
and a father not at all like you; oh yes, I should 
certainly have done as other girls do, I should have 
wanted to be loved, I should have thought about 
marriage as they do. Then, too, I may as well tell 
you all, I should have had hard work to fall in love; 
it was never much in my way, all that sort of thing, 
and it always made me laugh. Do you remember 
before Henriette's marriage, when her husband was 
making love to her? How I did tease them! ' Bad 
child! ' do you remember, that was what they used 
to call me. Oh, I've had my fancies, like every one 
else; dreamy days when I used to go about building 
castles in the air. One wouldn't be a woman with- 
out all that. But it was only like a little music in 
my mind; it just gave me a little excitement. It 
all came and went in my imagination; but I never 
had any special man in my mind, oh never. And 
then, too, when once I came out of my room, it was 
all over. As soon as ever any one was there, I only 
had my eyes; I thought of nothing but watching 
everything so that I could laugh afterward — and you 
know how your dreadful daughter could watch. 

They would have had to " 

326 



Renee Mauperin 



" Monsieur," said Chretiennot, opening the door, 
M. Magu is downstairs; he wants to know if he can 
see mademoiselle." 

" Oh, father," said Renee, beseechingly, " no doc- 
tor to-day, please. I don't feel inclined. I'm very 
well. And then, too, he snorts so; why does he snort 
like that, father? " 

M. Mauperin could not help laughing. 

" I'll tell you," she went on, " it's the effect of 
driving about in a gig on his rounds in the winter. 
As both his hands are occupied, one with the reins 
and the other with the whip, he's got into the way 
of not using his handkerchief " 



327 



LIX 

" Is the sky blue all over, father? Look out and 
tell me, will you? " said Renee, one afternoon, as she 
lay on the sofa. 

" Yes, my child," answered M. Mauperin from 
the window, " it is superb." 

"Oh!" 

" Why? Are you in pain? " 

" No, only it seemed to me that there must be 
clouds — as though the weather were going to change. 
It's very odd when one is ill, it seems as if the sky 
were much nearer. Oh, I'm a capital barometer 
now." And she went on reading the book she had 
laid down while she spoke. 

"You tire yourself with reading, little girl; let 
us talk instead. Give it me," and M. Mauperin held 
out his hand for the book, which she slipped from 
her fingers into his. On opening it, M. Mauperin 
noticed some pages that he had doubled down some 
years before, telling her not to read them, and these 
forbidden pages were still doubled down. 

Renee appeared to be sleepy. The storm which 
328 



Renee Mauperin 



was not yet in the sky had already begun to weigh 
on her. She felt a most unbearable heaviness which 
seemed to overwhelm her, and at the same time a 
nervous uneasiness took possession of her. The elec- 
tricity in the air was penetrating her and working 
on her. 

A great silence had suddenly come over every- 
thing, as though it had been chased from the horizon, 
and the breath of solemn calm passing over the coun- 
try filled her with immense anxiety. She looked at 
the clock, did not speak again, but kept moving her 
hands about from place to place. 

" Ah, yes," said M. Mauperin, " there is a cloud, 
really, a big cloud over Fresnoy. How it is moving 
along! Ah, it's coming over on to our side — it's com- 
ing. Shall I shut everything up — the window and 
the shutters, and light up? Like that my big girl 
won't be so frightened." 

" No," said Renee, quickly, " no lights in the day- 
time — no, no! And then, too," she went on, "I'm 
not afraid of it now." 

" Oh, it is some distance off yet," said M. Mau- 
perin, for the sake of saying something. His daugh- 
ter's words had called up a vision of lighted tapers 
in this room. 

" Ah, there's the rain," said Renee, in a relieved 
tone. " It's like dew, that rain is. It's as if we were 
drinking it, isn't it? Come here — near me." 

329 



Renee Mauperin 

Some large drops came down, one by one, at first. 
Then the water poured from the sky, as it does from a 
vase that has been upset. The storm broke over 
Morimond and the thunder rolled and burst in peals. 
The country round was all fire and then all dark. 
And at every moment in the gloomy room, lighted up 
with pale gleams, the flashes would suddenly cover 
the reclining figure of the invalid from head to foot, 
throwing over her whole body a shroud of light. 

There was one last peal of thunder, so loud and 
which burst so near, that Renee threw her arms round 
her father's neck and hid her face against him. 

" Foolish child, it's over now," said M. Mauperin; 
and like a bird which lifts its head a little from under 
its wing, she looked up, keeping her arms round him. 

" Ah, I thought we were all dead! " she said, with 
a smile in which there was something of a regret. 



330 



LX 

One morning on going to see Renee, who had 
had a bad night, M. Mauperin found her in a doze. At 
the sound of his footstep she half opened her eyes 
and turned slightly towards him. 

" Oh, it's you, papa," she said, and then she mur- 
mured something vaguely, of which M. Mauperin 
only caught the word " journey. " 

" What are you saying about a journey? " he 
asked. 

" Yes, it's as though I had just come back from 
far away — from very far away — from countries I can't 
remember." And opening her eyes wide, with her 
two hands flat out on the sheet, she seemed to be 
trying to recall where she had been, and from whence 
she had just come. A confused recollection, an indis- 
tinct memory remained to her of stretches and spaces 
of country, of vague places, of those worlds and 
limbos to which sick people go during those last 
nights which are detaching them from earth, and 
from whence they return, surprised, with the dizziness 
and stupor of the Infinite still upon them, as if in 

33i 



Renee Mauperin 



the dream they have forgotten they had heard the 
first flapping of the wings of Death. 

" Oh, it's nothing," she said after a minute's 
silence, " it's just the effect of the opium — they gave 
me some last night to make me sleep." And mov- 
ing as though to shake off her thoughts, she said 
to her father, " Hold the little glass for me, will 
you, so that I can make myself look nice? Higher 
up — oh, these men — how awkward they are, to be 
sure." 

She put her thin hands through her hair to fluff 
it up and pulled her lace into its place again. 

" There now," she said, " talk to me. I want to 
be talked to," and she half closed her eyes while her 
father talked. 

"You are tired, Renee; I'll leave you," said M. 
Mauperin, seeing that she did not appear to be 
listening. 

" No, I have a touch of pain. Talk to me, though; 
it makes me forget it." 

" But you are not listening to me. Come now, 
what are you thinking about, my dear little girl? " 

" I'm not thinking about anything. I was trying 
to remember. Dreams, you know — it isn't really 
like that — it was — I don't remember. Ah!" 

She broke off suddenly, with a pang of sharp pain. 

" Does it hurt you, Renee? " 

She did not answer, and M. Mauperin could not 
332 



Renee Mauperin 

help his lips moving, as he looked up with an ex- 
pression of revolt. 

" Poor father," said Renee, after a few minutes. 
" You see I'm resigned. No, we ought not to be 
so angry with pain. It is sent to us for some reason. 
We are not made to suffer simply for the sake of suf- 
fering." 

And in a broken voice, stopping continually to get 
breath, she began talking to him of all the good sides 
of suffering, of the wells of tenderness it opens up 
in us, of the delicacy of heart, and the gentleness of 
character that it gives to those who accept its bitter- 
ness without allowing themselves to get soured by it. 

She spoke to him of all the meannesses and the 
pettinesses that go away from us when we suffer; of 
the tendency to sarcasm which leaves us, and the 
unkind laughter which we restrain; of the way in 
which we give up finding pleasure in other people's 
little miseries, and of the indulgence that we have 
for every one. 

" If you only knew," she said, " what a stupid 
thing wit seems to me now." And M. Mauperin 
heard her expressing her gratitude to suffering as a 
proof of election. She spoke of selfishness and of all 
the materiality in which robust health wraps us up; of 
that hardness of heart which is the result of the well- 
being of the body; and she told him what ease and 
deliverance come with sickness; how light she felt 

333 



Renee Mauperin 

inwardly and what aspirations it brings with it for 
something outside ourselves. 

She spoke, too, of suffering as an ill which takes 
our pride away, which reminds us of our infirmity, 
which makes us humane, causes us to feel with all 
those who suffer, and which instils charity into us. 

" And then, too," she added with a smile, " with- 
out it there would be something wanting for us; we 
should never be sad, you know " 



334 



LXI 

" My dear fellow, we are very unhappy," said M. 
Mauperin, one evening, a few days later, to Denoisel, 
who had just jumped down from a hired trap. " I 
had a presentiment you would come to-day," he went 
on. " She is asleep now; you'll see her to-morrow. 
Oh, you'll find her very much changed. But you 
must be hungry," and he led the way to the dining- 
room, where supper was being laid for him. 

" Oh, M. Mauperin," said Denoisel, " she is 
young. At her age something can always be done." 

M. Mauperin put his elbows on the table and 
great tears rolled slowly from his eyes. 

" Oh, come, come, M. Mauperin; the doctors 
haven't given her up; there's hope yet." 

M. Mauperin shook his head and did not answer, 
but his tears continued to flow. 

" They haven't given her up? " 

" Yes, they have," said M. Mauperin, who could 
not contain himself any longer, " and I didn't want 
to have to tell you. One is afraid of everything, you 
see, when it comes to this stage. It seems to me 

335 



Renee Mauperin 

that there are certain words which would bring the 
very thing about, and to own this, why, I fancied it 
would kill my child. And then, too, there might be 
a miracle. Why shouldn't there be? They spoke 
of miracles — the doctors did. Oh, God! She still 
gets up, you know; it's a great thing, that she can 
get up. The last two days there has been an improve- 
ment, I think. And then to lose two in a year — it 
would be too terrible. Oh, that would be too 
much! But there, eat, man, you are not eating any- 
thing," and he put a large piece of meat on Denoisel's 
plate. " Well, well, we must bear up and be men; 
that's all we can do. What's the latest news in 
Paris? " 

" There isn't any; at least, I don't know any. I've 
come straight from the Pyrenees. Mme. Davarande 
read me one of your letters; but she is far from 
thinking her so ill." 

" Have you no news of Barousse? " 

" Oh, yes! I met him on the way to the station. 
I wanted to bring him with me, but you know what 
Barousse is; nothing in the world would induce him 
to leave Paris for a week. He must take his morning 
walk along the quays. The idea of missing an en- 
graving with its full margin " 

" And the Bourjots? " asked M. Mauperin with 
an effort. 

" They say that Mile. Bourjot will never marry." 
33^ 



Renee Mauperin 



" Poor child, she loved him." 

" As to the mother, it is the saddest thing — it 
appears it's an awful ending — there are rumours of 
strange things — madness, in fact. There's some talk 
of sending her to a private asylum." 



337 



LXII 

" Renee," said M. Mauperin, on entering his 
daughter's room the following day, " there is some 
one downstairs who wants to see you." 

" Some one? " And she looked searchingly at 
her father. " I know, it's Denoisel. Did you write 
to him? " 

" Not at all. You did not ask to see him, so 
that I did not know whether it would give you any 
pleasure. Do you mind? " 

" Mother, give me my little red shawl — there, in 
the drawer," she said, without answering her father. 
" I mustn't frighten him, you know. Now then, 
bring him here quickly," she added, as soon as her 
shawl was tied at the neck like a scarf. 

Denoisel came into the room, which was impreg- 
nated with that odour peculiar to the young when 
they are ill, and which reminds one of a faded bouquet 
and of dying flowers. 

" It's very nice of you to have come," said Renee. 
" Look, I've put this shawl on for your benefit; you 
used to like me in it." 

338 



Renee Mauperin 



Denoisel stooped down, took her hands in his and 
kissed them. 

" It's Denoisel," said M. Mauperin to his wife, 
who was seated at the other end of the room. 

Mme. Mauperin did not appear to have heard. 
A minute later she got up, came across to Denoisel, 
kissed him in a lifeless sort of way, and then went 
back to the dark corner where she had been sitting. 

" Well, how do you think I look? I haven't 
changed much, have I?" And then without giving 
him time to answer, she went on: "I have a dreadful 
father who will keep saying I don't look well, and 
who is most obstinate. It's no good telling him I 
am better; he will have it that I am not. When I 
am quite well again, you'll see — he'll insist on fancy- 
ing that I am still an invalid." 

Denoisel was looking at her wasted arm, just 
above the wrist. 

" Oh, I'm a little thinner," said Renee, quickly 
buttoning her sleeve, " but that's nothing; I shall 
soon pick up again. Do you remember our good 
story about that, papa? It made us laugh so. It 
was at a farmer's house at Tetevuide's — that dinner, 
you remember, don't you? Only imagine it, Denoi- 
sel, the good fellow had been keeping some shrimps 
for us for two years. Just as we were sitting down 
to table, papa said, ' Oh„ but where's your daugh- 
ter, Teteyuide? She must dine with us. Isn't she 

339 



Renee Mauperin 

here? ' ' Oh, yes, sir.' ' Well, fetch her in, then, or 
I shall not touch the soup/ Thereupon the father 
went into the next room, and we heard talking and 
crying going on for the next quarter of an hour. He 
came back alone, finally. ' She will not come in/ he 
said, ' she says she's too thin.' But, papa," Renee 
went on, suddenly changing the subject, " for the last 
two days mamma has never been out of this room. 
Now that I have a new nurse, suppose you take her 
out for a stroll? " 

" Ah, Renee dear," said Denoisel, when they were 
alone, "you don't know how glad I am to see you 
like this — to find you so gay and cheerful. That's a 
good sign, you know; you'll soon be better, I assure 
you. And with that good father of yours, and your 
poor mother, and your stupid old Denoisel to look 
after you — for I'm going to take up my abode here, 
for a time, with your permission." 

" You, too, my dear boy? Now do just look 
at me!" 

And she held out her two hands for him to help 
her to turn over, so that she could face him and have 
the daylight full on her. 

" Can you see me now? " 

The smile had left her eyes and her lips, and all 
animation had suddenly dropped from her face like 
a mask. 

340 



Renee Mauperin 



" Ah, yes," she said, lowering her voice, " it's all 
over, and I haven't long to live now. Oh, I wish I 
could die to-morrow. I can't go on, you know, 
doing as I am doing. I can't go on any longer 
cheering them all up. I have no strength left. I've 
come to the end of it, and I want to finish now. He 
doesn't see me as I am, does he? I can't kill him 
beforehand, you know. When he sees me laugh, why 
it doesn't matter about the doctors having given me 
up — he forgets that — he doesn't see anything, and he 
doesn't remember anything — so, you see, I am obliged 
to go on laughing. Ah, for people who can just pass 
away as they would like to — finish peacefully, die 
calmly, in a quiet place, with their face to the wall- 
why, that must be so easy. It's nothing to pass away 
like that. Well, anyhow, the worst part is over. 
And now you are here; and you'll help me to be 
brave. If I were to give way, you would be there 
to second me. And when — when I go, I count on 
you — you'll stay with him the first few months. Ah, 
don't cry," she said; "you'll make me cry, too." 

There was a moment's silence. 

" Six months already since Henri's funeral," she 
began again. " We've only seen each other once since 
that day. What a fearful turn I had, do you re- 
member? " 

" Yes, indeed I do remember," said Denoisel. 
" I've gone through it all again, often enough. I 

341 



Renee Mauperin 

can see you now, my poor child, enduring the most 
horrible suffering, and your lips moving as though 
you wanted to cry out, to say something, and you 
could not utter a single word." 

" I could not utter a single word," said Renee, 
repeating Denoisel's last words. 

She closed her eyes, and her lips moved for a sec- 
ond as though they were murmuring a prayer. Then, 
with such an expression of happiness that Denoisel 
was surprised, she said: 

"Ah, I am so glad to see you! Both of us 
together — you'll see how brave we shall be. And 
we'll take them all in finely — poor things! " 



342 



LXIII 

It was stiflingly hot. Renee's windows were left 
open all the evening, and the lamp was not lighted, 
for fear of attracting the moths, which made her so 
nervous. They were talking, until as the daylight 
gradually faded, their words and thoughts were influ- 
enced by the solemnity of the long hours of dreamy 
reverie, without light-. 

They all three soon ceased speaking at all, and 
remained there mute, breathing in the air and giving 
themselves up to the evening calm. M. Mauperin 
was holding Renee's hand in his, and every now and 
then he pressed it fondly. 

The gloom was gathering fast, and gradually the 
whole room grew quite dark. Lying full length on 
the sofa, Renee herself disappeared in the indistinct 
whiteness of her dressing-gown. Presently nothing 
at all could be seen, and the room itself seemed all 
one with the sky. 

Renee began to talk then in a low, penetrating 
voice. She spoke gently and very beautifully; her 
words were tender, solemn, and touching, sometimes 

343 



Renee Mauperin 



sounding like the chant of a pure conscience, and 
sometimes falling on the hearts around her with 
angelic consolation. 

Her ideas became more and more elevated, ex- 
cusing and pardoning all things. At times the things 
she said fell on the ear as from a voice that was far 
away from earth, higher than this life, and gradually 
a sort of sacred awe born of the solemnity of dark- 
ness, silence, night, and death, fell on the room where 
M. and Mme. Mauperin, and Denoisel were listening 
eagerly to all which seemed to be already fluttering 
away from the dying girl in this voice. 



344 



LXIV 

On the wall-paper were bouquets of corn, corn- 
flowers, and poppies, and the ceiling was painted with 
clouds, fresh-looking and vapoury. Between the 
door and window a carved wood praying-chair with 
a tapestry cushion looked quite at home in its cor- 
ner; above it, against the light, was a holy-water 
vessel of brass-work, representing St. John baptizing 
Christ. In the opposite corner, hanging on the wall 
with silk cords, was a small bracket with some French 
books leaning against each other, and a few English 
works in cloth bindings. In front of the window, 
which was framed with creeping plants joining each 
other over the top and with the leaves that hung 
over bathed in light, was a dressing-table, covered 
with silk and guipure lace, with a blue velvet mirror 
and silver-mounted toilet bottles. The shaped man- 
tel-shelf surmounted with a carved panel, had its glass 
framed with the same light shade of velvet as that on 
the dressing-table. On each side of the glass were 
miniatures of Renee's mother, one when quite young 

345 



Renee Mauperin 

and wearing a string of pearls round her neck, and a 
daguerrotype representing her much older. Above 
this was a portrait of her father in his uniform, painted 
by herself, the frame of which, leaning forward, 
caused the picture to dominate the whole room. On 
a rosewood dinner-wagon, in front of the chimney- 
piece, were one or two knick-knacks, the sick girl's 
latest fancies — the little jug and the Saxony bowl that 
she had wanted. A little farther away, by the second 
window, all the souvenirs that Renee had collected in 
her riding days — her hunting and shooting relics, 
riding-canes, a Pyrenees whip, and some stags' feet 
with a card tied with blue ribbon, telling the day 
and place where the animal had been run to cover. 
Beyond the window was a little writing-desk which 
had been her father's at the military school, and on its 
shelf stood the boxes, baskets, and presents she had 
received as New Year's gifts. The bed was entirely 
draped with muslin. At the back of it, and as though 
under the shelter of its curtains, all the prayer-books 
Renee had had since her childhood were arranged on 
an Algerian bracket, from which some chaplets were 
hanging. Then came a chest of drawers covered 
with a hundred little nothings: doll's-house furni- 
ture, some glass ornaments, halfpenny jewellery, 
trifles won in lotteries, even little animals made of 
bread-crumbs cooked in the stove and wit-h matches 
for legs, a regular museum of childish things, such 

346 



Renee Mauperin 

as young girls hoard up and treasure as reminis- 
cences. The room was bright and warm with the 
noonday sun. Near the bed was a little table ar- 
ranged as an altar, covered with a white cloth. Two 
candles were burning and flickering in the golden 
flight 

Through the dead silence, broken only by sobs, 
could be heard the heavy footsteps of a country priest 
going away. Then all was hushed, and the tears 
which were falling round the dying girl suddenly 
stopped as though by a miracle. In a few seconds 
all signs of disease and the anxious look of pain had 
disappeared from Renee's thin face, and in their place 
an ecstatic beauty, a look of supreme deliverance had 
come, at the sight of which her father, her mother, 
and her friend instinctively fell on their knees. A 
rapturous joy and peace had descended upon her. 
Her head sank gently back on the pillow as though 
she were in a dream. Her eyes, which were wide 
open and looking upward, seemed to be filled with 
the infinite, and her expression gradually took the 
fixity of eternal things. A holy aspiration seemed to 
rise from her whole face. All that remained of life — 
one last breath, trembled on her silent lips, which 
were half open and smiling. Her face had turned 
white. A silvery pallor lent a dull splendour to her 
delicate skin and shapely forehead. It was as though 
her whole face were looking upon another world 

347 



Renee Mauperin 



than ours. Death was drawing near her in the form 
of a great light. 

It was the transfiguration of those heart diseases 
which enshroud dying girls in all the beauty of their 
soul and then carry away to Heaven the young faces 
of their victims. 



348 



LXV 

People who travel in far countries may have 
come across, in various cities or among old ruins — 
one year in Russia, another perhaps in Egypt — an 
elderly couple who seem to be always moving about, 
neither seeing nor even looking at anything. They 
are the Mauperins, the poor heart-broken father and 
mother, who are now quite alone in the world, Re- 
nte's sister having died after the birth of her first 
child. 

They sold all they possessed and set out to wander 
round the world. They no longer care for anything, 
and go about from one country to another, from one 
hotel to the next, with no interest whatever in life. 
They are like things which have been uprooted and 
flung to the four winds of heaven. They wander 
about like exiles on earth, rushing away from their 
tombs, but carrying their dead about with them every- 
where, endeavouring to weary out their grief with the 
fatigue of railway journeys, dragging all that is left 
them of life to the very ends of the earth, in the hope 
of wearing it out and so finishing with it. 



349 



THE PORTRAITS OF EDMOND 
AND JULES DE GONCOURT 



THE PORTRAITS OF EDMOND AND 
JULES DE GONCOURT 




Like Dickens, Theophile 
Gautier, Merimee, and 
some other literary celeb- 
rities, the brothers Gon- 
court tried their hands at 
drawing and engraving 
before devoting them- 
selves to letters. Some- 
times in their hours of 
leisure they further made 
essays in water-colour 
and pastel. Thanks to 
Philippe Burty, Jules de 
Goncourt's " Etchings," 
collected in a volume, and some of Edmond's sepia 
and washed drawings, allow us to glean certain of 
the earliest of those records in which the faithful 
Dioscuri endeavoured to portray each other with a 
care both affectionate and touching. A very pretty 
" Portrait of Jules as a child, in the costume of a 
Garde Francaise," a drawing heightened with pas- 
tel, is described by Burty as one of Edmond's best 
23 353 



EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

Drawn from life by Will Rothen- 
stein, 1894. 



The Portraits of 

works, but one, unfortunately, which it was not 
possible to reproduce. " In the swallow-tail coat 
of the French Guard," says Burty, " starting for a 
fancy dress ball, the brilliance of his eyes height- 
ened by the powder, his hand on his sword-guard, 
at the age of ten, plump and spirited as one of 




EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

From an etching by Jules de Goncourt, i860. 

Fragonard's Cupids." Here we have the younger 
of the Goncourts, delineated with all the subtlety 
of a delicate mannerism. Edmond was eighteen 
at the time. Scarcely free of the ferule of his 
pedagogues, he already looked at life with that air 
of keen astonishment which was never to leave him, 
and which was to kindle in his eye the sort of phos- 

354 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 



phorescent reflection that shone there to his last 
hour. It was the elder and more observant of the 
two who first attempted to represent his young 







EDMOND AND JULES DE GONCOURT. 

From a lithograph by Gavarni, 1853. 

brother, the one who was to be the greater artist of 
the pair, as if the compact had already been entered 
upon, as if both by tacit consent accepted the prolific 

355 



The Portraits of 

life in common, then only at its dawn. A great der 
light to the two brothers was their meeting with Ga- 
varni, at the offices of L Eclair, a paper founded to- 
wards the end of 185 1 by the Comte de Villedeuil. 
From that first meeting dated the strong friendship 




JULES DE GONCOURT. 

From a water-colour by Edmond de Goncourt, 1857. 



between the trio, a friendship that verged on wor- 
ship on the side of the Goncourts, and on tenderness 
on that of Gavarni. Two years later, on April 15, 
1853, in the series called Messieurs du Feuilleton which 
he began in Paris, the master draughtsman of the 
lorette and the prodigal gave a delicious sketch of 
Edmond and Jules de Goncourt. In his Masques et 

356 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

Visages, M. Alidor Delzant, a bibliophile very learned 
in the iconography of the Goncourts, declares these 
to be the best and most faithful of all the portraits of 




PORTRAIT OF EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

From an etching from life by Jules de Goncourt, 1861. 

the two brothers. We give a reproduction of this 
fine lithograph. Seated in a box at the theatre in 
profile to the right, an eye-glass in his eye, Jules, ap- 
parently intent on the play, leans forward from be- 
side Edmond, who sits in a meditative attitude, his 
hands on his knees. M. Delzant compares these por- 

357 



The Portraits of 



traits to those of Alfred and Tony Johannot by Jean 
Gigoux. And do they not also recall another group 
of two literary brothers, older, it is true, the delicate 
faces of Paul and Alfred de Musset in the delicious 
frame of the Musee Carnavalet? Gavarni's drawing 
is a perfect master-piece of expression and subtlety. 




MEDALLION OF EDMOND AND JULES DE GONCOURT. 

From an engraving by Bracquemond, 1875. 

Placed one against the other, like the antique medals 
on which Castor and Pollux are graved in profile in 
the same circle, how admirably each of these gentle 
faces, in which we note more than one analogy, com- 
pletes the other! And as we admire them, are we 
not tempted to exclaim : Here indeed are the Freres 
Zemganno of letters ! 

The reputation of the two brothers increased pro- 
portionately with their works — works of the most 
intense and subtle psychological research. Installed 
in that apartment of the Rue Saint Georges which 

358 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 



they so soon transformed into a veritable museum of 
prints and trinkets, Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 
prepared those brilliant monographs of queens and 
favourites, which have made them the rare and 
enchanting histo- 
rians of the most ^\ -\ 
licentious and 
factious of cen- 
turies. 

In 1857 Ed- 
mond made the 
water-colour 
drawing of " Jules 
smoking a Pipe," 
which was after- 
ward lithograph- 
ed. His feet on 
the edge of the 
mantel - piece in 
front of him, 
Jules, seated in 
an arm - chair, a 
small pipe in his mouth, gives himself up to the de- 
lights of the far niente. This contemplative attitude 
was a favourite one with him, and one in which he 
was often discovered by visitors. By representing 
him thus, Edmond gave an additional force to the 
living memory that all who knew his brother have 
retained of him. 

359 




EDMOND DE GONCOURT 

In 1888. 
Portrait on wood in La Vie Populaire. 



The Portraits of 



Three years later (i860) Jules in his turn made a 
portrait of Edmond, not in the same indolent atti- 
tude, but also in profile, and with a pipe in his mouth. 

This print is one 
of the best in the 
Burty album. We 
know of no fur- 
ther mutual repre- 
sentations by the 
brothers ; with the 
exception of Jules 
de Goncourt's 
etching of Edmond 
seated across a 
chair, smoking- a 
cigar, the design 
of which we repro- 
duce. But there 
are several fine 
portraits by other hands of the younger brother, 
the one who was the first to go, perforce abandon- 
ing his sublime and suicidal task. 

It was in 1870 that Jules de Goncourt died at the 
age of thirty-nine. " It was impossible," wrote Paul 
de Saint- Victor in La Liberty " to know and not to 
love this young man, with his child's face, his pleas- 
ant, ready laugh, his eyes sparkling with intellect 
and purpose. . . . That blond young head was bent 
over his work for months at a time. . . ." It was the 

360 




EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

From a photograph by Nadar, 1892. 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 



profile of this " blond young head " that Claudius 
Popelin traced for the enamel that was set into the 
binding of the Necrologe, in which Edmond preserved 
all the articles, letters, and tokens of sympathy called 
forth by the irreparable loss of his beloved compan- 
ion and fellow-labourer. This medallion, etched by 
Abot, was prefixed afterward to the edition of Jules 
de Goncourt's Letters, published by Charpentier. 
The profile, which 
is reproduced as 
the frontispiece 
to this edition of 
Rene'e Manperin, is 
infinitely gentle; 
the emaciated con- 
tours, the extraor- 
dinary delicacy of 
the features, betray 
the intellectual 
dreamer, his mind 
intent on literary 
questions, and we 
understand M. 
Emile Zola's dic- 
tum : 
him." 

Prince Gabrielli and Princesse Mathilde also made 
certain furtive sketches of Jules which have since 
been photographed. Meaulle engraved a portrait of 

361 




EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

From an etching by Bracquemond, 1882. 

Art killed (The original drawing is in the Luxembourg 

Museum. ) 



The Portraits of 



him on wood, and Varin made an etching of him. 
Henceforth, save in Bracquemond's double medal- 
lion, and in one or two papers in which studies of 
him by different hands appeared, Edmond de Gon- 

court was no longer 
represented in com- 
pany with his gifted 
brother, but always 
alone. 

On March 15, 1885, 
the Journal Illustre 
published two por- 
traits of the Goncourts 
drawn by Franc Lamy, 
and on November 20, 
1886, the Cri du Peuple 
gave two others, in 
edmond de goncourt. connection with the 

From a photograph by Nadar, 1893. appearance of Rene'e 

Mauperin at the Odeon. 
We may also note that the medallion of the two 
brothers drawn and engraved by Bracquemond for 
the title-page of the first edition of LArt du XVIIIhne 
Siecle appeared in 1875. A delicate commemorative 
fancy caused the artist to surround the profile of 
Jules with a wreath of laurel. 

Utterly crushed at first by the sense of loneliness 
and desolation his loss had created, Edmond de Gon- 
court was long entirely absorbed in memories of the 

362 




Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

departed. The spiritual presence of Jules filled the 
house with its mute and mournful sentiment. The 
heart-broken survivor could find consolation and re- 
lief for his pain only in friendship. Theophile Gau- 




PORTRAITS OF THE FRERES DE GONCOURT. 

Part of a design by Willette, in Le Courrier Franoais, 1895. 

tier, Paul de Saint- Victor, Jules Valles, the painter 
De Nittis, Burty, Flaubert, Renan, Taine, and Theo- 
dore de Banville sustained him with their affection. 
A band of ardent, active, and audacious young- men, 

363 



The Portraits of 



among whom M. Emile Zola was specially distin- 
guished by the research of his formulas, began to 
link him with Flaubert, offering them a common 
worship. Alphonse Daudet (we have now come to 
the year 1879) sketched the most faithful portrait of 

him to whom a whole 
generation was soon to 
give the respectful title 
of " the Marshal of Let- 
ters": "Edmond de 
Goncourt looks about 
fifty. His hair is gray, 
a light steel gray ; his 
air is distinguished and 
genial ; he has a tall, 
straight figure, and the 
sharp nose of the sport- 
ing dog, like a country 
gentleman keen for the 
chase, and, on his pale 
and energetic face, a 
smile of perpetual sad- 
ness, a glance that sometimes kindles, sharp as the 
graver's needle. What determination in that glance, 
what pain in that smile ! " Many artists attempted 
to fix that glance and that smile with pencil or 
burin, but how few were successful ! 

One of these few was the sculptor Alfred Lenoir, 
in a remarkable work executed quite at the end of 

364 




EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

By Eugene Carriere. 
Lithographed in 1895. 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 



Edmond de Goncourt's life. His white marble bust 
well expresses the patrician of letters, the collector, 
the worshipper of all kinds of beauty. A voluptu- 
ous thrill seems to stir the nostrils, a flash of sympa- 
thetic observation to gleam from the deep set eyes. 

The author of 
this bust, a work 
elaborated and 
modelled after the 
manner of those 
executed by Pajou, 
Caffieri, and Fal- 
connet in the eight- 
eenth century (see 
the reproduction 
at the beginning of 
this volume), may 
congratulate him- 
self on having given 
to Edmond de Gon- 
court's friends the 
most exquisite sem- 
blance of their lost comrade. Carriere, on the other 
hand, in his superb lithograph, where only the eyes 
are vivid, and Will Rothenstein, in a sketch from 
nature which represents the master with a high 
cravat round his throat, his chin resting on a hand 
of incomparable form and distinction, have repro- 
duced, with great intensity and comprehension, 

365 




EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

By Eugene Carriere. 
From the cover of a vellum-bound book. 



The Portraits of 

Edmond de Goncourt grown old, but still robust, 
upright and gallant, a soldier of art in whom the 
creative faculty is by no means exhausted. Rothen- 
stein's lithograph in particular, with the sort of mor- 
bid languor that pervades it, the mournful fixity of 
the gaze, the aristocratic slenderness of the hands 
and the features, surprises and startles the spectator. 
" By nature and by education/' says M. Paul Bour- 
get, " M. Ed. de Goncourt possesses an intelligence, 
the overacuteness of which verges on disease in its 
comprehension of infinitesimal gradations and of the 
infinitely subtle creature." Mr. Rothenstein has 
made this intelligence flash from every line of his 
drawing. 

Frederic Regamey, Bracquemond (in the fine 
drawing at the Luxembourg), De Nittis (in pastel), 
Raffaelli (in an oil painting), Desboutins (in an etch- 
ing), and finally M. Helleu (in dry point), have 
striven to penetrate and preserve the subtle psychol- 
ogy of the master's grave, proud, and gentle counte- 
nance. With these distinguished names the iconog- 
raphy of the Goncourts concludes. Perhaps, as a 
light and graceful monument of memory, we might 
add the fine drawing made by Willette on the occa- 
sion of the Edmond de Goncourt banquet, which rep- 
resents the elder brother standing, leaning against 
the pedestal of his brother's statue, while at his feet 
three creatures, symbolizing the principal forms of 
their inspiration, are grouped, superb and mournful. 

366 



Edmond and Jules de Goncourt 

Who are they ? No doubt Madame de Pompadour, 
the Geisha of Japanese art, and finally, bestial and de- 
graded, La Fille Elisa — types that symbolize the most 
salient aspects of that genius — historic, aesthetic, and 
fictional — which will keep green the precious memory 
of Edmond and Jules de Goncourt. 

OCTAVE UZANNE. 




EDMOND DE GONCOURT. 

Unpublished portrait from life, by Georges Jeanniot. 



THE END 



367 



SEP 101902 






LRBFV17 



toy- 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



029 561 733 01 



I 



